The Common Cause
by Tabitha12
Summary: When an outbreak of the flu hits Schooner Bay, it would seem no one is immune – except the Captain and Claymore Gregg, who must learn to work together, for the sake of the Muir family. Please read and review with kindness.


_**Title: The Common Cause**_

_**Author: Mary**_

_**Rating: PG**_

_**Summary: When an outbreak of the flu hits Schooner Bay, it would seem no one is immune – except the Captain and Claymore Gregg, who must learn to work together, for the sake of the Muir family. Please read and review with kindness. **_

_**Disclaimer: The characters from 'The Ghost and Mrs. Muir' belong to 20th Century Fox and David Gerber productions. No infringement is intended, no profit is made, and the characters will be returned unharmed from whence they came. This story is for enjoyment only. All other characters, plots, story lines and development of GAMM characters belong to the author and may not be used or changed without express written permission.**_

_**Mentholadum, Vicks, Seven-Up, Bufferin, Monopoly and Sears are trademarks, and mentioned within the context of the story only. No advertisement or testimonial should be any way implied or inferred.**_

_**Sarah and Jareth come from the Labyrinth, Christine from the Phantom of the Opera. They are crossed into the same story, 'Where Night is Blind,' which is on loan to Carolyn, (by Amanda!) for the duration.**_

_**Many, many thanks to Amanda for all her help and encouragement, Susan Griffith for the always needed beta read, and any other Gammies that I might have, even accidentally, gleaned information from.**_

**The Common Cause**

**March, 1971**

Carolyn Muir stared at the typewriter in front of her, bleary eyed — entirely too bleary-eyed for ten o'clock in the morning. Candy and Jonathan were in school, and the house was quiet. Martha was in Florida, helping her sister care for her aging mother. Evelyn, Martha's sister, had been struck down by the flu epidemic that had been traveling over the U.S. since New Year's, and they had all agreed that she should take no chances passing any germs along to her elderly parent. Carolyn flexed her fingers and typed a sentence or two, then stopped again to stretch her shoulders. She had spent a great deal of time in the last week or so hunched over either the desk or her aging Royal typewriter, typing and retyping her latest story. There were papers, research books, and pictures spread out from one end of the antique desk to the other.

Captain Daniel Gregg appeared by the French windows and made his way over to where Carolyn was seated, staring at the typewriter and the jumble of papers before her.

"Carolyn, love?" She looked up into his mesmerizing sea-blue eyes. "My dear, how is everything coming? Have you made any progress yet?"

"Yes. No. Well, it's still pretty..." She shuffled a few papers before her as she looked up from where she was seated. "...Discombobulated, to say the least, Daniel. I mean, I know where everything needs to be, and I have everything written out, and my outline is done, but I have a lot of notes too, and inserts." She held up a pair of scissors and nodded to her overflowing wastebasket. "I've done some cutting and pasting, just to organize the first fifteen pages or so. I wish the typewriter could do that! I still have a lot more to do — plus a lot of notes to cross-check." She held up another stack of paper. "It's all here, just not completely in order. Not the final form, anyway. I... I seem to be having a little trouble getting moving this morning. I had no idea this story was going to take so much research, for fiction, that is. If I pull a couple of all-nighters, I should just about make it. My deadline is in three days." She sighed. "I'm not so sure now I should have tried tackling such a long story, especially for a magazine like _Feminine View_, even if Ellsworth Gordon isn't the editor any more!"

"I thought you were happy about having a chance to write a different sort of story than _Maiden Voyage_, my dear?" the Captain asked, concerned.

"I didn't write _Maiden Voyage,_ Daniel, you did." She gave him a look. "This story is a lot longer and yes, quite different from..."

"If you had any doubts, maybe you shouldn't have..." He stopped suddenly, biting his tongue. Telling Carolyn what, when, or how to write was still on the top of the list for good ways to start an argument — he had learned that over the three years following his re-write of _Maiden Voyage_, an article for the Beacon, and 'helping' on several sea-yarns she had written. (Before she had asked for help, that is). "I'm worried about you, love. Perhaps..." He stopped again, debating silently how best to continue.

Almost as if she had read his thoughts, and maybe she had, Carolyn picked up where the mariner had left off. She shook her head. "I know... I was going to take a good, long rest after Christmas, when the advance check for the Memoirs was safely in the bank, and I really meant to. You have no idea how much I hated spending almost the entire thing on a decent car!" She nibbled her lower lip. "That wasn't in my plans at all. I was hoping the station wagon would hold out for another year! But when that rod thingie came loose and whanged everything apart under the hood last month, it just couldn't be saved." She scowled. "It's just not fair that some professions, like writers, don't count as viable ways to make a living and single women, whether widowed or divorced, can't get a loan — let alone a credit card!"

"I know, love," the seaman soothed her. "And some day such things will change. But, look at it this way," he said brightly. "The new station-wagon is paid for, and you know you love it, as do the children, and Martha. You have no monthly payments to worry about, and no expensive, ongoing repairs on the old one for this and that. And I understand that monthly car payments can be quite taxing if you have a thin month, financially, and you DID have the money available. The Memoirs will be coming out in a couple of months, and there will be more money then. Not to worry, my dear."

"That's another thing..." Her frown deepened. "I had no idea that it would take so long for your book to be published, Daniel. I certainly didn't know that at Christmas, when I made it your Christmas present."

"Carolyn, that's quite..."

"And then I had to spend the advance _Feminine View _gave me for THIS story to fix the washing machine, and pay for getting the furnace repaired. That means I HAVE to get it done, and then, even when I do get it done, the TV has been acting funny again, not that I have had time to watch any lately! The dryer's probably on its last legs and this rainy weather..." Her voice trailed off. "Blast it, anyway. I was hoping it would remain clear for a few days so we could use the clothesline outside. I hate using the one in the cellar. So I still need to go see what kind of used dryers Abner has for sale in his fix-it shop, but who has time? I need to make this deadline before I can do any of that. It's a vicious circle."

"In my day, we managed to get by without all your modern conveniences," Daniel answered. "Washing machines... dryers... electric toasters... Line dried linens have a wonderful smell, as I recall, and do you know how marvelous toast tastes right out of the oven with freshly churned butter on top?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the mariner regretted them.

"YOU didn't have to do washing and ironing and cooking, your housekeeper did, remember, Daniel?" Carolyn snapped her response, then she sighed. "I'm sorry, love. I'm just uptight... stressed. You know how I get around deadlines..." She reached for her empty coffee cup. "Blast..." she stared at the mug bleakly, as if somehow it would refill itself. "...And I miss Martha. I know she needed to go help her sister, and she'll only be gone a few days, but I DO feel the lack of the second set of hands around here." She turned back toward the typewriter. "Well, back to work."

"Maybe I CAN do something for you, my dear..." So saying, the spirit vanished.

"Daniel..." Carolyn called, standing up. "Please, you don't need to go, I..."

Before she could utter another syllable, Daniel returned, holding an obviously very fresh, hot cup of coffee in his hand. "I believe you needed this?"

"Thank you, love," she said softly. Giving him a quick kiss, she sank into her desk chair and sipped the hot liquid gratefully.

"My dear, Carolyn, if you find these modern thingamajigs..." He waived his hand airily about the room. "Dryers, washers, toasters, coffee makers, typewriters, etcetera, vital to your continued well-being, then I suggest forcing that weasel, Claymore to do his duty as landlord and maintain this ship in a proper fashion. I would offer to take care of that matter for you, but you have laid out a non-interference policy that I am bound, on my honor as a gentleman, to adhere to."

"I think perhaps modern appliances are as much out of your expertise as they are mine, Daniel." Carolyn smiled. "Claymore said he would try to be up later today to see if he could do anything with the dryer. But thank you. I know you would fix them, if you could."

He nodded. "I did repair the shutter in the kitchen, and the clothesline in the cellar, and Martha has shown me a few common plumbing problems and how to resolve them, but..."

"I know, Daniel," she said softly. "I really don't mean to greet you each day with a 'honey-do' list."

"You want me to go marketing? For melons?" He looked surprised.

Carolyn grinned. "No, Daniel. That's what Betty Coburn calls the lists of things she gives her husband to do on the weekends. You know — _Honey_, put up the screens. _Honey_, cut the grass. _Honey,_ do this. _Honey, _do that..."

The spirit smiled down at the woman in front of him, giving her a look that said what he couldn't begin to say with words. "Keep treating me to endearments such as those and I'll be a poodle yet, and quite happy."

"Poodle?" A tired look crept into her eyes.

"You know — that small, domesticated animal I told you I wouldn't be turned into? The one by the fireplace?"

Carolyn smiled, remembering their first meeting, and her tired look vanished. "I hope not. You wouldn't be you if I turned you into a poodle."

"I know, love." Turning her around in her chair so her back faced him, he reached for her shoulders and softly and gently, he started a gentle massage. "Now relax, my dear. Your stories are always wonderful. You're just feeling overwhelmed, that's all."

Carolyn gave a sigh and relaxed a bit. "Daniel..."

"Hmm… you are tense... Yes, love?"

"Life has certainly been more interesting since Epiphany, when you surprised us with the fact that you taught yourself to touch and be touched again."

"I certainly think so." He continued his gentle handiwork.

"Daniel...?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"My neck is blasted sore, too..."

"Too many nights in front of a typewriter, instead of…"

_"Daniel..."_

"...Resting properly. You work too hard." Slowly, his hands eased up to the base of her neck and worked on the tight muscles there.

"You have about twenty years to stop that," she said softly. "That feels so good..."

What seemed like only a few moments later, he leaned down and kissed the nape of her neck, and then the top of her head, and continued his massage.

"I just wish I knew a little more about what you are writing about this time. Perhaps I could help," he went on, his hands never stopping their movements.

"It's more a historical romance, Darling. I told you that. Not a ship or seaman in sight, so it's not quite your bailiwick. But I would be more than happy to let you read it when it is done. I think I've just about rounded the bend, though."

"You always say that while you are working, and this close to deadline, and after that, it always takes you at least another twenty-four hours to finish and another twenty-four hours to recover," he argued, continuing his ministrations, now giving her a light scalp massage.

"That feels too good," she whispered. "You need to stop." But she didn't pull away. "Daniel, after almost three years, I think you know my system. I'll get this done..."

"Yes I do. You wear yourself out and take days to get back to normal, and by then you have started another story, and so the process goes on."

"I do not wear myself out!" Carolyn sounded peeved.

"Relax, my dear, and yes, you do," he insisted. "The only time you didn't was when you wrote the story about the Partridges staying with us."

"MOST of us." Carolyn smiled at her ghost, fondly. "That one was a joy — even with the few alterations I had to make, concerning your part in everything. Whenever I hear from Shirley there's always a message from Tracy, asking about you."

The spirit looked pleased. "She asks about me? Really?"

"Of course." Carolyn rubbed her eyes, and then reached for Daniel's hand, still on her head, and kissed his fingertips. "Thank you for worrying about me, but I'll be fine. Just give me another day or so to get this finished, and…"

From his station at the back of her chair, Daniel wrapped his arms around his lady. "Carolyn..." He reached his head around and kissed the hollow of her throat, lightly, and then moved his lips to her ear where he spoke in low throaty whisper. "Please, my dear. Please understand it when I say I LIKE worrying about you."

She shivered at his tone of voice. "I'm still getting used to that..." She leaned backwards in her chair and looked up at him, upside down, awaiting his kiss. "...And I do believe I like it."

"I should hope so..." he returned, meeting her lips with his for a sweet instant. Then, the phone rang.

_"Blast..." _they said together.

"Darn phone," Carolyn uttered a sigh. "Another delay."

"On your story, or...?" He grinned wickedly.

"Both. Now behave," she smiled back, and the phone rang for a second time.

"I suppose you need to answer that infernal contraption," the Captain said, kissing her again, quickly.

Carolyn reached for the receiver. "You suppose right," she answered, and sighed again. For a moment she had almost forgotten her headache and how much more work she still had to get done. "Hello? Carolyn Muir speaking." There was a short pause as she listened to the voice on the other end, and then nodded. "I see... I see... Right in the middle of assembly? Blas...That is, I'm sorry, Mrs. Stukey. Well, I'm glad she was near a door... Well, yes, it did make the clean up a bit easier. Yes. Yes. She'll be in the nurse's office? Right." Still with her ear on the receiver, she reached for the sweater on the back of her desk chair and threw it over her arm. "Can you give me an extra fifteen minutes to swing by the store and get ginger-ale and… right. Thanks, I appreciate it. I don't want to leave her alone, once I pick her up. All right, Mrs. Stukey. I'll be there as soon as I can. Yes. Thank you again. I'll be there. Good-bye." Sighing, she hung up the phone.

The seaman's raised eyes asked the question.

"It's Candy," Carolyn said. "That was the school nurse. Candy threw up right in the middle of assembly this morning. I need to go pick her up."

The mariner's eyebrows inched a bit higher. "She didn't look ill when she left for school."

Carolyn shrugged. "It happens that way, Daniel. Besides, Candy doesn't always give out any signs ahead of time. Neither does Jonathan. But when they do get sick, they do it on a grand scale. Besides," she added, "you know it's been going around."

"Aye. That's why Martha isn't here. Evelyn. Her mother. So..." He gazed down at her worried face. "Do you have a battle plan?"

"Not much I can do..." Carolyn shrugged, gracefully. "I need to go get her. But first..." Carolyn put down the sweater she had just picked up and reached for the phone again.

"Now who are you calling?" the seaman asked.

"Doctor Ferguson, naturally."

The seaman rolled his eyes. "That peep?"

_"Doctor_ Peep, If you don't mind. And yes, I am. I need to find out whether I can bring her in right after I pick her up, or sometime later today."

"Does it have to be him? He's nothing but a child."

"He's NOT a child..." she protested, dialing the operator. "Besides, he is the only doctor IN Schooner Bay... Millie?" She spoke into the receiver. "Oh. Myrtle? Millie is out sick? I'm sorry to hear that. Myrtle, can you connect me with Doctor Ferguson's office?" There was a pause. "Oh, he's out. Making calls. I see. Yes. Flu. I know. That's why I am calling him. Well, can you connect me to his office anyway? I'd like to leave a message. Thanks, Myrtle."

Carolyn reached for her now lukewarm coffee and finished it while she waited for Myrtle to make the connection.

"Blasted antiquated phone system," the Captain said, pacing. "Don't they know you have a sick child?"

"Shh."

"My dear, no one can see or hear me..."

"Except me," she retorted, giving him a smile. "Now..." There was a click and suddenly Nancy Reed Ferguson answered on the other end. "Nancy?" Carolyn started. "Hi. Is Doctor Ferguson there, or is he due back soon? You aren't sure... Yes. Yes, it's Candy. Yes, threw up in school. I'm on my way to go pick her up now. Yes..." A frown came to her face. "He can't? Well, are you sure that… Yes, I see. Keep fluids going... toast if she can handle it. Weak tea. Keep her warm. Bufferin. Right. But is there any chance he...?" She lifted her eyebrows. "Maybe later, but he won't promise. I see. Well, then. I guess I better get going. Yes, the school nurse is waiting for me. Yes, Well, thanks, Nancy, and please call me if there is any change and the doctor can make it out after all. Right. Goodbye. Blast..." she uttered softly, and hung up the phone.

"Carolyn?" The seaman asked, concerned.

"Well, that answers that..." she said, already sounding harried. "Nancy says this flu is all over town. Doctor Ferguson is trying, but really, all we can do is ride the storm out." She gave him a wan smile. "Liquids, toast... the worst part is supposed to be over in twenty-four to forty-eight hours, and then bed rest for at least that long again. Quick recovery time really, but I don't think Candy will think so." She looked at him thoughtfully. "That, and Nancy said the older you are the harder it hits."

"That doesn't sound promising, but Candy is young, she'll weather it," the seaman said.

"I think I better get moving," Carolyn answered him. "The school nurse, Mrs. Stukey, told me she'd keep watch on her until I get there, but that I ought to stop and lay in a bunch of supplies first. You know: ginger ale and so on. So I guess I better hurry and get that done, then maybe if Candy goes right to sleep, I can get back to my story. I still have a deadline." This last thought was not said with the greatest of confidence, even Daniel could tell that, and before the spirit could blink again, the woman was gone.

xxxxxxxxxx

The ride home was not wonderful. Carolyn had to stop twice, for obvious reasons, given the circumstances, and by the time they reached the threshold of Gull Cottage, both mother and daughter were shaking. The spirit met them at the door.

Wordlessly, Candy reached toward the seaman's strong arms. "Uhh... Captain..." she started, and looked green again. Picking her up, Daniel quickly headed for Candy's room, the mortal way, with Carolyn following.

After yet another stop in the bathroom, they finally reached the bedroom, and Candy made a half-hearted dive toward her bed.

"Wait a minute, sweetie," her mother said. "Nightgown first."

The Captain looked uncomfortable. SOME things were still a bit foreign to him, and this was one of them. "I think I will... go unpack your groceries, my dear." He studiously looked away from where mother and daughter were sitting on the bed. "Would that be all right?" He nodded toward the night stand. "Remembering Tracy Partridge, I did take the precaution of leaving out the baby aspirin and Vicks and …"

"I'm not a BABY!" Candy wailed, and buried her face in her mother's chest.

"Hush, sweetie," Carolyn soothed her. "Of course you're not."

The spirit vanished.

Ten minutes later, her daughter safely tucked in under two blankets, a glass of ginger ale at the side of the bed, Carolyn made her way back to the master cabin.

"Daniel?" She whispered, knowing the seaman could hear her wherever she was.

"Yes, my dear?" He was at her side immediately. "Is Candy all right?"

Carolyn made a face. "Uhm. Well. That depends on how you look at it. She's good and sick... and pathetic. But she said she was sorry that she cried when you were only trying to help."

"I understand."

"Daniel?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"I'm sorry, too. About snapping at you this morning. I wanted to tell you, again."

"'Twas nothing, love. I regret I wasn't of more help." He glanced toward the door. "I suppose Candy would consider herself too old for the stories I told Tracy." He turned back to his lady, giving her a sad look.

Carolyn smiled. "Maybe not. She was just starting to doze off when I left. But, well, with the kind of flu she has, she could wake up at any time and, you know, she might just take to one of your stories then." She smiled a soft, reminiscent smile. "Or one of your lullabies."

The spirit looked pleased. "I forgot about... singing. Do you really think she might enjoy that?"

"Of course she would, Daniel. I enjoy it, and she's my daughter."

Carolyn could have sworn the seaman's cheeks turned a tad ruddier, and he gave her a shy smile. "I'll keep an eye out, then. Her bedroom door is open?"

Carolyn nodded again. "Yes, but have no fear. Believe me, if she needs one of us, you'll know it, whether the door is open or closed."

xxxxxxxxxx

The next few hours did not go terribly well. Carolyn's maternal instinct, honed by experience, was right on target. Candy was one very sick, unhappy, little girl. Her first emergency call came a scant forty-five minutes after her mother had snuggled her in to bed. The sheets had to be stripped, as well as Candy, the bed remade, and Candy cuddled for a bit before being eased back to sleep. The spirit of Gull Cottage was able to handle removing the linens, but wooing Candy back to bed could only be handled by Carolyn.

About an hour after the lady and spirit had put the 'used' sheets on to wash, it happened again. Fortunately, this time Candy managed to hit a small pail the Captain had placed by the side of her bed after the first time around, 'blasting' himself for not having the foresight to place it there the moment the child had climbed into bed to begin with.

Another hour passed, with a minimum amount of work accomplished by either Carolyn, OR Daniel, who was helping Carolyn collate her collected material, and bring a semblance of order to the master cabin — that, and put the second load of soiled bed linens on to wash. With the dryer broken, they were now hanging the wet sheets in the cellar with an electric fan blowing on them. The March day was still way too rainy to hang anything outside.

By that time, Candy was awake again, and fretful. Daniel took a turn with the little girl while Carolyn continued _trying_ to write — coaxing Candy into a piece of dry toast and apple juice, and then talking her back into bed with his most often requested story — rescuing the cat and seven kittens. Candy dropped off before the story was half told, however, and Daniel ventured down to the basement, 'blasting' moments later when he discovered the sheets they had hung up what already seemed like ages before, still weren't dry.

xxxxxxxxxx

Carolyn was alone in the Captain's cabin when the doorbell rang.

"Blast," she muttered, putting down her umpteenth cup of coffee. "Finally moving along on my story here, and no Martha to answer the blasted door." She sighed. What a wretched day it had been! With Candy sick, the best she had been able to accomplish was about an hour's worth of writing in four hour's time, and her story was a LONG way from done.

She looked at the clock on the wall, startled when she realized what time it was. Three fifteen! School was out a half-hour ago! "That's Jonathan ringing the bell!" she muttered. A bit put out, Carolyn made a race for the downstairs. _The front door's closed, not locked — Candy's asleep, why did Jonathan pick today of all possible days to ring the blasted doorbell?_ Remembering then she had not prepared any sort of after-school snack for her son, Carolyn opened the door, the Captain right behind her, and they saw Jonathan standing there, schoolbooks in hand, his head hanging.

"Jonathan, why did you..." Carolyn broke off as her son raised his blue eyes to hers.

"I'm sorry Mom, I... I don't feel so good," said Jonathan. And he heaved.

"Oh, no…" Carolyn moaned, looking at the mess in the foyer.

The seaman looked at floor, askance, and wiggled a finger. The mess was gone as quickly as it came, and he turned to the beautiful, but tired-looking woman next to him, now trying to cuddle and soothe her son.

"What else I can do, my dear?" the spirit asked, as the three of them started for the stairs "Here..." he picked the boy up as he had his sister earlier in the day. "Let me carry him upstairs."

"You can teach me how to do that THING you do," Carolyn answered, giving a faint smile and wiggling the same finger the Captain had moments before. She shrugged. "In answer to your question, I don't know yet. Help me get Jonathan to bed. After he's taken some medicine and had something to drink, he should go to sleep for a while. Then maybe I can get another..." She looked at her watch. "...hours worth of work done maybe before one of them calls for something." She looked at Jonathan's white, pinched face, his head leaning on the Captain's broad shoulder.

As they reached the top of the stairs, Carolyn stopped the spirit. "Wait a minute, Daniel."

"Yes, my dear?"

"Sick can't be helped, but there's no good reason for me to make more trips than I have to. Candy still has two beds in her room. I think it would be better if Jonathan bunks with Candy for the next couple of days."

"I concur," he said, stepping over the threshold of Candy's room, the door still ajar. Much to Carolyn's relief, Candy stirred only slightly as they bundled her brother into bed. After one more unscheduled trip to the bathroom, and providing Jonathan with Bufferin, a glass of ginger ale and a bucket as they had his sister, it didn't take long before Jonathan had dropped off into a fitful sleep.

"Now," the Captain asked, as they left the room and made their way back to the master cabin. "What else needs doing?"

Carolyn sighed. "Everything? Nothing? I don't know. I need to get back to my story. I guess I should see if those sheets are dry first."

"Surely they must be by now!" the Captain fumed. "I did call Claymore earlier. I thought he was supposed to be out here to look at the dryer today." He shook his head. "I didn't get an answer at his office, though, and I didn't want to leave Gull Cottage, you, or the children to look for him. I can go check the linens, my dear."

Carolyn nodded. Reaching up, she gave him a soft kiss. "I think you were right. I'd rather have you here than out chasing down Claymore." She glanced at the papers still spread out all over her desk. "IF the children sleep for a while, I can't think of a thing I need you to do, unless the kitchen needs tidying, and you don't really need to do that now. It can wait." She grimaced. "But that IF is a big one. Thank-you, Daniel."

The Captain nodded slowly. "If you are sure. Just the same, love, I'll keep one ear out. I'll be in the wheelhouse, working on my logs, if you need me." With those words, he vanished, and Carolyn turned back to her typewriter.

xxxxxxxxxx

Carolyn was right. There are some days that the word 'IF' becomes a VERY big word.

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, but not for the best reasons available. With two sick children in the house, and a headache of her own, concentrating was becoming increasingly difficult. "Mommy!" had become the call of the late afternoon and evening.

"Mom! Jonathan's sick again!"

Another load of sheets to the wash.

"Mommy! I'm thirsty!"

Another trip downstairs.

Each time the call came, "Mommy" answered. Carolyn would stop what she was doing and go to her children, fetching and carrying, cleaning up 'messes,' until finally, after numerous trips back and forth from the master cabin to the nursery, the children had once more dropped off. Miraculously, Carolyn had managed to get the rest of her story 'ordered' as she called it — the pages, handwritten notes included, all in one large quasi-organized stack — the 'clean-type' process not yet begun.

About six thirty, Daniel Gregg materialized in the master cabin.

"Now this looks promising, my dear..." The ghost gestured at her much more orderly-looking desk. "How are you doing? Better, it would seem."

"Somewhat," She smiled, looking up from her station at the typewriter. "I think I am almost ready to start the final draft. I just have..." Carolyn started riffling through the stack of paper beside her typewriter. "...A few more notes to triple-check and a couple of photos to look at yet."

"Your story will have pictures with it?" he asked, surprised.

"No, just for reference, Daniel. My editor did say they would be including a photo of me as the author though."

"Can I talk you into using the one I like this time?" he asked, coming nearer the desk. "The one of you in your green sweater, standing by my wheel?" He laid his hands on her shoulders, lightly, then gently started rubbing her stiff neck.

"Keep THIS up for five more minutes, and I will, Daniel," she smiled and started to relax. "I'll need to stop for a bit," she sighed, "although I really don't want to. I need to go find something the kids can stomach for supper."

"Not to worry, my dear," he answered. "I've already taken care of that."

"You did?" Carolyn asked, surprised, and half-turned in her chair.

"Turn back around," the seaman ordered. "I haven't finished here yet." Leaning over, he kissed the nape of her neck, and turning around, she returned his kiss. Then he stood back up straight. "I put on a can of that instant chicken broth you brought home."

"Good. That's about all I had planned for them. Doctor Ferguson did say to keep their diet light until the nausea stage passes."

The Captain snorted. "Light?" He threw up his hands. "With that canned bilge, I'd say nonexistent was closer. Why there's nothing to it at all, and then the can says you have to add water. I can't believe what they make you pay for a can of nothing. How I do miss Martha's cooking when she isn't here!"

"She'll be pleased to hear you say that, Daniel!" Carolyn smiled. "Do you need some help in the kitchen?"

"If you mean, did I mess it up while preparing dinner, no, not really," he answered, deciding not to tell her about the glass he had knocked off the counter while plugging in the can opener, or the carton of milk he had upset in the refrigerator. Such things were minor.

Carolyn nodded, absently, inserted a new sheet of paper into the typewriter and adjusted the light by the desk. "That's a good idea, Daniel."

"Jonathan says his head hurts, and wants to know if, since they are 'stuck in bed,' to use his words, can I can 'pop' the TV into their room," he added.

"No," said Carolyn, a definite, final, tone to her voice. "They're sick. Watching too much television when you are sick isn't good for your eyes, and certainly wouldn't be good for his head. Besides, popping or no popping, Martha said the TV is this close to broken. It's not worth the time or energy to move it."

"That's what I said," the seaman chuckled. "He really didn't fuss too much, I think he just wanted to try. A matter of principle."

"Sounds like Jonathan..." Carolyn agreed. "How's Candy?"

"Still queasy, but I keep pushing fluids," the spirit replied. "I suppose I should get back down to the kitchen. I thought more toast for the children to eat along with their soup."

"Thank you, Daniel," she answered, starting to type. "I hope this batch stays down."

"There's dinner for you too, Carolyn, love. Jonathan liked the broth, and I made you a turkey sandwich to go with it."

"Maybe later," Carolyn answered, now typing madly. "I'm not really hungry. Give me another hour or so, here. I think I might have a handle on where I am going. I want to get this down while it's working right..."

"Carolyn..." he reproached her. "Skipping meals isn't..."

"Daniel, please. I'm not skipping. I'm... delaying. I'll eat by and by, I promise."

The seaman nodded, not wishing to interrupt, but knowing Carolyn, 'by and by' could be entirely too far in the future.

"Mommy!" came Candy's voice from down the hall. "I think Jonathan is going to be sick again!"

Carolyn paused.

"No fear!" he intercepted her. "I'll handle it, my dear."

"Would you please you do that?" she answered, without really breaking stride. "Thank you, Daniel." Soon she was typing again, faster than ever.

xxxxxxxxxx

For the next three hours, Carolyn and the Captain alternated answering the children's calls, the Captain maintaining he could handle them all, but Carolyn asserting just as hard that "MOMMY!" was a cry that couldn't always be ignored, even with a great helper. In between calls, trips to the bathroom, and another longer stop to change the sheets once more on Jonathan's bed, Carolyn wrote, and typed, and rewrote, and made another stop when Candy, who had gotten a little light-headed, wandered into the master bedroom and started to crawl into Carolyn's bed. Her daughter safely diverted back to her own bed, Carolyn started in again, and during this time, the spirit of Gull Cottage kept her coffee cup full and his reservations to himself. Finally, at nine-thirty, he popped into the master cabin.

"Carolyn?"

"Hmm…?" her head lifted from the paper she was scribbling on, and she gazed up at him.

"My dear, you have to eat something."

"I can't stop now..."

"You don't have to stop, love." He held out a tray. "Soup in a cup. Turkey sandwich. You can eat right here at your desk."

She smiled, not wanting to argue the point. Maybe a little food would take away the churning that had been going on in her stomach for the last half-hour. "Okay, Daniel. You're right... I could use a break."

"Finally, you agree with me," the seaman smiled. "I'll be right back. I want to check on the children."

Carolyn began eating the sandwich slowly and re-reading the last pages she had typed. By the time Daniel Gregg had returned, the sandwich was gone and half the broth.

"This is quite filling," she said, looking up at him from her chair. "I didn't know you knew how to cook."

"It's instant," he noted. "I believe I mentioned that before."

"It's the thought that counts, my dear." Her eyes smiled, but they were tired.

"I mean the soup. Store-bought food like this will never do anything toward beefing up the sick. The children will be better by tomorrow, and then..."

"Doctor Ferguson says this flu strain goes at least forty-eight hours, Daniel."

"Nonsense," he sniffed. "Not hearty stock like yours. By tomorrow they will be clamoring for real food." He scratched his beard, thoughtfully. "I believe I still remember the recipe. I learned it from one of my cooks on some voyage or another. The children need meat for their bellies! A good hearty breakfast — salt mackerel, fried in lard and red cabbage. That's the ticket!" he added, looking pleased with himself. "I'll pop out early tomorrow while the children are asleep and catch some fish, and I think Martha's lard bucket is in the refrigerator... then, I'll..."

"Oh, Daniel..." she moaned, and turned very white.

"Carolyn! You ARE sick! I must insist. You need to go to bed. Immediately."

"I'm not sick!" Carolyn snapped back, still shaking her head trying desperately to clear the fainting feeling she was experiencing. "I've been drinking too much coffee. You know… the acid content, right, Daniel?"

"You..."

"Daniel, I... I'm not sick. My work... this story has to be postmarked by the day after tomorrow, latest. I have a contract. I can't be late, and I have the kids to take care of. I'm fine... it was just hearing about the blasted mackerel... fried in la..." She turned green again, but then recovered.

"Carolyn, I'm putting my foot down. You've been working all day, and taking care of two sick children. If you don't stop, at least for tonight, and rest, I'll call Martha... or go get her. Whichever is faster."

"No, Daniel. Martha hardly ever takes time for herself — besides she can't leave her sister and mother now — and what good would it do for her to come home? She might get sick, too."

"Ah-HAH!" he said triumphantly. "You said "too." You admit it! You are ill!"

"Daniel, for the last time, I am not sick!" she protested, but the seaman could see her turning whiter, and she put her own hand to her forehead. "Well, maybe I don't feel wonderful, but it's probably just because I waited too long before I ate dinner. I need to work on this story!"

"No." The spirit shook his head. "You've worked enough for today." Deftly, he levitated her typewriter off the desk, and out of her reach.

"Daniel, this isn't funny..." Carolyn started, and made a dive for it, but regardless how many attempts she made to catch the flying machine, the Captain managed to keep it just out of her reach. Finally, out of breath and light-headed, Carolyn gave up.

"Well, maybe I have had enough for one night, Daniel," she admitted. "But I really don't think I'm..." She turned quite green then and then suddenly, it was too late. In the next moment, the dinner the seaman had so lovingly prepared for his lady had been deposited near and on his polished boots. Dismayed, the spirit waved his index finger once more, and made the mess disappear.

"You are doing NOTHING else tonight but going to bed," he said sternly.

"Daniel, I have a story to type... write," Carolyn protested, wiping her mouth and trying to steady herself, "I..."

"My dear, I can type, remember? I have learned a few things in the last hundred years."

"Oh, yes, you can type all right," she grinned, in spite of her nervous stomach. "You can write a decent news article too, as I recall. Cleveland Hampton was most impressed."

"Are you never going to stop reminding me of that one blasted incident, Carolyn?" he growled.

"Probably not, or _Maiden Voyage_, either," she replied, still glancing at the typewriter floating near the ceiling, like a helium-filled balloon. "And don't try anything like writing up one of your tales as my story. Mister Michaels is expecting my story and he has a basic synopsis. That's what sold it."

"Blast," he muttered_. Could this woman read his mind?_ "Maybe Willowbark..."

"No, Daniel," she stopped him. "This isn't like before — and I know what Willowbark tastes like now. I... you're right, I... I think I better rest..." slowly she sank down on the bed. "Besides," she murmured, shaking slightly, "besides, we have no brandy in the house..." She trembled, and watched as the typewriter slowly sank from its location on the ceiling and back to the desk. "You know, love, I think maybe I COULD use some ginger-ale..." Nodding, the Captain popped out, and when he returned to the master cabin five minutes later, drink and medicine in hand, Carolyn had changed into her nightclothes and crawled into bed. She was still shivering.

"I don't need that, Daniel," Carolyn protested as the seaman fluffed the pillows around her. "Just let me rest for an hour or so, and I'll..."

"Hour, nothing." He answered her protests by throwing another blanket over the one that was already on the bed. "You are going to bed now, and you aren't getting up until I say you can." He paused for a moment and then watched her closely while she swallowed two Bufferin, with a full glass of water, and slid down under the covers without further protest. She was asleep a minute later.

Daniel Gregg gazed thoughtfully at the face of the woman he loved. Carolyn had argued more when she had come down with the Ague almost two years before — and she certainly hadn't been as grumpy this morning as she had back then either. Her lack of protest was troubling, but he was grateful. Now, what to do next? As he tugged his ear in deep thought, his gaze fell on the typewriter_. Her story, of course. It has to get finished — a deadline in two days, and the advance for it already spent on the blasted furnace, and the washing machine. _"I could do that for her," he whispered, even though he had already willed himself not to be heard or seen by anyone. "I'm a ghost, after all, still. I can type all night if necessary and not get tired. And it's not as if I haven't used the machine before." He smiled, thinking of the time that he had rewritten her article about the school dedication and even more infamously, _Maiden Voyage_. "It's just clean-typing her notes. How hard could it be?"

After popping to Candy's room, the room he still considered the nursery, long enough to make sure neither of his two younger charges needed anything, he settled down to type. As he hit the first key, the ghost winced. _Belay that_, he thought. _Blast it, Daniel, think. Too much noise. I'd better move this to the kitchen. It wouldn't do to wake Carolyn after convincing her to rest._ Scruffy, who had been standing guard at the foot of Carolyn's bed, seemed to nod his head in agreement.

Popping in and out of the bedroom twice, Daniel transferred Carolyn's old manual typewriter, a stack of research books from the Schooner Bay Library, and every scrap of paper in sight — typed and handwritten, covered in Carolyn's almost decipherable scribble — down to the kitchen table, 'blasting' when he had to return one last time for more blank typing paper and the type eraser pencil with the funny brush. Scruffy followed the seaman downstairs almost silently, the only sound coming from his toenails clicking against the wood floor. With a small sigh, the spirit sat down, arranged himself and the work before him and started to type.

xxxxxxxxxx

Even for a ghost, Daniel had a very long night.

First of all was the matter of the typing. Not quite as easy a matter as he remembered, somehow. With a start, he realized the subtle difference in typing a story "straight out of your head" as Carolyn so often said, and typing someone else's material. The typewriter keys seemed to have a mind of their own, just when he didn't want them to, creating the most strangely spelled words — not to mention the oddest punctuation marks, just where he DIDN'T want them. Then there was learning to understand Carolyn's strange system of notes and inserts — not that many so far, but twice it led to retyping an entire page. Every last word had to be right. The last thing he wanted was any mistakes, and another _Maiden Voyage _issue on his hands.

There was also the question of mastering the use of the typewriter eraser, as the infernal typewriter he was using did not have a correction button. Such a thing was a luxury available only on the new IBM Selectric Carolyn had been planning on purchasing with part of the Memoirs advance — before the car had given out, that is. Twice he had ripped the paper while erasing, and had had to start the page again, and he had learned by experience NOT to pull the paper out of the machine to do the erasing either, as it was almost impossible to align the paper back in the machine correctly after had been removed.

About the time the seaman had the 'hang' of typing, as Candy liked to say, calls started coming from upstairs. Being able to 'tune in' on the children's and Carolyn's voices, like radar, was a big help. This meant that all they had to do was say his name and he was there — without waking up the sick in the next bedroom over. Still, the calls came approximately once per hour after midnight. First came Jonathan. The broth he had eaten for dinner was once more deposited onto his sheet and blanket, not to mention the bedroom floor. The bed had to be changed again, naturally, and the floor cleaned, this activity waking Candy, who started to bark out a strange cough; one that sounded very much like Algae, the Muir family's visiting seal from the year before. By the time the children were settled, and yet another load of soiled sheets thrown in the washing machine, it was Carolyn's turn to make use of a bucket, and it took another half hour after that, another glass of ginger ale and two more Bufferin to ease her back into bed — the Captain assuring her that he would take care of Candy and Jonathan. The subject of her story did not come up, and from Carolyn's looks and actions, Daniel decided that the doctor's wife had been right when she said that this particular strain of the flu was much harder on adults than children.

By the time Carolyn had once more drifted off into an uneasy sleep, the children were awake again, Candy coughing, Jonathan just looking miserable. Daniel made them some weak tea, applied Vicks to Candy's chest, changing their pillowcases as he had seen Carolyn do on similar occasions, and finally eased them back to sleep with his story about saving the native boy from the octopus.

Popping back downstairs, Daniel peered in the cupboards, looking for brandy; the chief ingredient for Willowbark Golden Elixir. Not a drop. _Blast._

He stared at the empty coffeepot on the stove and then at the pages of clean-typed copy beside the typewriter. How could he have possibly been at this all night and only typed eight pages? Eight pages. _Blast._ He shuffled the stack of miscellaneous typed and handwritten pages on the other side of the typewriter. Eight pages and at least... forty to go. _Blast, Blast._ As he sat down at the kitchen table in inserted a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter, he wondered idly if it was possible for a spirit to take a nap. He certainly felt as if he could use one.

xxxxxxxxxx

With a start, Daniel looked up from his work. It was dawn. The sun was coming up, and he could hear the seagulls' cries down by the beach.

Hearing a soft moan from Carolyn, Daniel dematerialized and rematerialized in the master cabin. The morning sun was shining directly onto the bed, waking her. It was a lovely way to wake up — on any morning but this. As he shut the drapes, Carolyn sat up with a start; her eyes open, but unfocused. Daniel turned toward the bed.

"Carolyn?" he started. "Carolyn, you don't need to worry. You're sick, and need to stay…"

Her head fell back down on the pillow and she gave him a vacant look. "I'm not really that sick, I just feel awful, Daniel."

He nodded, choosing not to argue that her statement made no sense.

"My dear, you are not well," he said, materializing more medicine and a glass of water into his hand. "I'm taking care of you. Everything is going to be fine."

Nodding, Carolyn slid back down into bed, not arguing with his edict.

"Carolyn dear, are you hungry?"

She shook her head once more, looking a bit more lucid. "No, Captain. Are my children all right?"

"Your children?" He frowned. Odd choice of words, that. "Candy and Jonathan? They're… well, they are asleep at the moment, but I believe they are getting better."

"My story, Daniel…" Her eyes started to close. "What about…"

"I am taking care of things, my dear, he soothed her. "Carolyn, darling, I'm typing your story…it's going fine, your rough draft is wonderful…"

"Fine…" she yawned. "But I don't want any _Maiden Voyage_ jokes this time."

He chuckled. "No, love, I promise. No improvements. But…" her eyes were closed now. "Carolyn, I did have one thing I wanted to check with you. The part I am typing now, when Jareth and Sarah meet at the opera house, I wanted to make sure that..."

Her eyes open again and she looked up at him. "Daniel?" she asked, her face puzzled. "Who are Jareth and Sarah? Do you have friends visiting? It really isn't a good time with the children sick…"

"Carolyn, love." He kept his voice calm, despite the ever-so-slight feeling of panic rising up in his heart. "Carolyn, Schooner Bay doesn't have an opera house, you know that. Jareth and Sarah in your story, remember?"

"Of course I do," she nodded, shivering. "I'm cold, Daniel."

Opening the closet, Daniel levitated another blanket to the bed and spread it out on top of the others. Leaning her up slightly, he held her shoulders as she swallowed another two pills.

"Now, darling," he tried again. "About Jareth and Sarah..."

"I'm sorry, Daniel, I'm really sleepy." She looked at him, her eyes now open again. "But your friends can stay if you want them to. Just don't let them near the kids. I wouldn't want Jareth and Sarah to get sick."

"Forget I asked, love," he answered, shrugging his shoulders. _As if one of HIS friends could get sick! _The irony of her words almost amused him, if they didn't worry him so much, that is. He'd work it out.

xxxxxxxxxx

Candy and Jonathan awoke about a half-hour later. Both on the whiny side, but they seemed a bit perkier than the day before, somehow. Candy was still coughing, however, and Jonathan had joined her — also complaining of a stuffed up nose, and said that his head hurt. Well, it was better than throwing up.

Renewing the prescribed diet of weak tea, ginger ale and dry toast seemed to be enough to satisfy them in the way of breakfast, however. When the two clamored for a story, he told them about the time he spent a month at sea with no wind and the cook going mad... only covering the high points; Jonathan declaring the story as good as anything that television had to offer. A short while later, after being dosed with Vicks, Bufferin and children's cough medicine, the two fell asleep once more. Idly, Daniel wondered why Tracy Partridge hadn't been this much trouble when she had been at Gull Cottage at Christmas, then he remembered the obvious. Three adult women and a total of six other children — HEALTHY children — did make things a bit easier in the looking-after department. Right now it was just him.

"I miss Martha," he sighed, and popped downstairs back into the kitchen. Looking at the wall telephone there, he had an idea. Lifting the receiver, he tapped several times on the telephone cradle until the Schooner Bay telephone operator answered. Making a face, he started speaking in Claymore Gregg's nasal tones:

"Hello, Millie...? Oh yes, silly me, I do beg your pardon, Myrtle... yes, Millie has that nasty old flu... well, this is Claymore Gregg calling from... Gull Cottage, yes. You knew that too? Well, you just know a lot, don't you? Yes, everyone is sick out here, and I'm helping. Listen, Mil...Myrtle, would you connect me with the pee... Doctor Ferguson's office? Yes... you're charging for this service now? Fine. Just charge it to my account. Yes. That's right... No, I mean it. Yes! Thank you, Myrtle."

Moments later, Daniel was connected — the phone ringing eight times before a tired-sounding voice answered the other end.

"Doctors' office. Nancy Ferguson speaking. May I help you?"

Daniel breathed a sigh of relief. "Mrs. Ferguson? Claymore Gregg speaking, I..."

"MRS. Ferguson?" The woman on the other end gave a short laugh. "Claymore Gregg, I've been Nancy to you since I was twelve years old and pet-sat your parakeet, Dickey Bird. Why so formal, all of a sudden?"

"Well..." for a moment the seaman was at a loss for words, but he quickly recovered. "...Formal call, Nancy. I'm out here at Gull Cottage, helping, you see and…"

"You?" Nancy's voice took on a disbelieving tone. "Mrs. Muir needs your help? Caring for her children? I know they are sick. I would have thought her quite capable of — "

"Oh... no, no, no…" Daniel winced at making Claymore Gregg a hero. "You see, Martha Grant is away and now Car... Mrs. Muir is ill also, as well as the children, so I am helping. I was wondering when I could expect to see Doctor Ferguson?" Daniel blanched at the thought of having to assume the outward appearance of Claymore Gregg for the peep's visit, as he had assumed the appearance of 'Danny,' for Ryan McNally, but anything for his family!

Nancy's voice on the other end took on a regretful tone. "I'm sorry, Claymore, but I am afraid that anyone coming out to see you is going to be impossible — "

"IMPOSSIBLE?" For a moment, the seaman's own voice came through, but he quickly recovered. "Impossible, Nancy? Whatever are you talking about?"

"Bruce is sick, Claymore. He's down with the same bug that everyone else in town is. He started the whole routine last night... you know what I am talking about if you have been taking care of Mrs. Muir and everyone. I'm afraid Bruce going anywhere today is going to be out of the question. That's why I am taking messages — not that I have much choice, us living over the office, so to speak. I'm really sorry."

"Oh, dear," Daniel answered, keeping his Claymore cover in mind. "Surely there is someone else? Who normally makes calls when your husband isn't available? I'm really worried about Mrs. Muir, especially. She seems to have been hit fairly hard. The kids haven't thrown up for a while, but they are barking like little seals, and Jonathan says his head hurts, and they both have temperatures, and…"

"Sorry, Claymore." The seaman could almost see Nancy shaking her head. "Doctor James is down with the flu too. There's just no one to come. No one within shouting distance, anyway. Look..." she paused. "I can't come out there. I won't have my nurse's license for two months, so I can't practice anything related to medicine, legally, but if it's any comfort, it sounds like you have the situation in hand. Try to keep the children warm and in bed, although I do know that can be hard. Keep the fluids going, nothing more than toast for the kids for at least another twenty-four hours. Watch it on the butter, or anything with lots of milk. If you rush that, they can get the... well, never mind, just don't."

"Uhm, I think I follow that... Isn't there any prescription you can phone into the drug store?" he asked, troubled. "Like with that Virus X that was..." He broke off, still wishing for a supply of brandy in the house.

"No…" Nancy answered. "Bruce was telling me about Virus X before he got sick. This isn't the same thing at all. Dosing people with that medicine could really do some damage. Besides, I'm not a doctor. I couldn't prescribe anything, even if I wanted to."

"So what can you do for me?" The Captain's voice, even as Claymore's, was taking on an edgy quality.

"What I said, Claymore," Nancy reiterated. "Keep them warm, and medicated. Bufferin, cough medicine. Push the fluids. Ginger ale is good. Keep up with the Vicks on their chests, if they are coughing. It will make them feel better. And make sure they rest, as much as possible. Watch Mrs. Muir closely. I have had a couple of cases of delirium reported — mostly taking shape of bad dreams and mild hallucinations. That's about it. Call me if you need any other advice, and don't give up the ship. The worst should probably be over in another forty-eight hours or so." There was a pause. "Listen. I need to go. If I can get this phone to stop ringing for ten minutes, I need to get to the store and stock up on more flu supplies myself. I'm bouncing back and forth between answering the phone and taking care of Bruce and my mother."

"Nothing else?" The seaman sighed.

"Yes..." Nancy answered thoughtfully.

"And that would be?"

"Good luck, Claymore."

There was a click on the other end — the woman had hung up.

The seaman stared, unbelieving, into the telephone receiver. _On my own_, he thought. _On the whole, I would rather not be. And Carolyn's story has to get done... _Replacing the phone on its cradle, he gestured toward the counter on the other side of the kitchen, levitating a large glass pitcher in his direction. Well, first order of business was making more apple juice. Suddenly an ever-so-slight wave of SOMETHING hit him, and the pitcher dropped from its midair path across the room — landing on the tile floor and shattering into a million pieces.

"What the..." Daniel said out loud, and shook his levitating finger like someone would shake down the mercury in a thermometer. "How could this..." He was oddly reminded of poor Elroy Applegate's inability to get the knack of simple levitation. "I must be more distracted that I realized. That's it." He gestured at the fragments of glass all over the floor, willing them together again.

Nothing happened.

"What the devil?" He wiggled the finger on his left hand and pointed toward a coffee cup hanging on the wall, motioning it toward him.

It sat there.

_Sea Vulture? _Daniel thought frantically. _Surely it wasn't time for another visit from that accursed ship! Isn't once every seven years enough? I need to get to my telescope._

Not wanting to enter the master cabin for fear of waking what he hoped was a still-sleeping Carolyn, the spirit quickly _walked_ into the living room where he had left his hand-held telescope the day before, crunching over broken glass, still all over the kitchen, as he went. Grabbing it, he strode out to the front porch of Gull Cottage and looked out to sea. _No. Nothing. Blast! _He fumed. _And powerless, I have no way to reach any of my ghostly associates to see if this is a ghost-wide outage! No powers... _he continued his musing. _I don't understand... _He smacked his right fist into the palm of his left hand. _I certainly felt THAT,_ he thought, and he made a muscle. _Perfect shape — I feel fine... Still the strongest man in New England. Ghost anyway, no Samson issues, and I'm solid, thank heaven. What on earth is the matter with me?_

A thump, and then a moan came from the top of the stairs.

Habitually, the seaman tried to pop his way upstairs. Failing, he started up the mortal way. Making it to the second floor in record time, he found Carolyn Muir prone and unmoving on the floor, at the door of the Captain's cabin.

With a low cry, he reached her — just in time, as it turned out, for Candy and Jonathan's blonde heads popped out from the nursery room doorway. Carolyn moaned again, softly, and looked up at the seaman from the floor. Thank goodness, she seemed almost lucid.

"Daniel, don't tell them I... I almost fainted. They don't need to see me so out of it... please."

"What's going on, Captain Gregg?" Candy inquired, and coughed again.

"Yeah, Captain... anything we can do to help?" Jonathan asked, his eyes wide. "What's wrong with Mom? I didn't know she was sick!"

"Uhm, yes, she is..." he started. "But she... she thought she had her... ah... sea legs back. But it turns out not quite..." _Think, think._ "…Blasted treacherous slippers..." He gestured to her pink mules that were now lying loose on the floor. "These things tripped her up. Never saw the sense in them. Just flimsy bits of foam they are, and fluffy."

"I like the ones Martha knits better," Candy agreed, nodding her head.

"You can slide with those, too," her brother pointed out. "Especially when Martha has just waxed the floors."

"But you have to try harder," his sister argued. She looked at her mother again. "Want us to help you, Captain?"

Daniel shook his head.

"No, children." Carefully he helped Carolyn to her feet, noticing how much she leaned on him. "What I want is for both of you to go back to bed, immediately. I'll be in to see you as soon as I get your mother settled again."

"But..." Jonathan protested.

"Bed." Daniel's voice was firm.

"But you'll come in and see us pretty soon?" Candy asked, plaintively. She coughed again and Jonathan wiped his nose on his pajama sleeve.

"As soon as your mother is safely back in bed." He looked at them both, sternly. "Captain's orders, mates."

"Okay," Candy agreed. "My feet are starting to get cold anyway. I think I'd rather be in bed. C'mon, Jonathan." Turning, the two disappeared back into the nursery.

The moment the two children were out of sight, Captain Gregg scooped Carolyn up into his strong arms and headed back to the master cabin; contemplating how much nicer the moment could be if only his lady were well. He soon had her bed straightened and Carolyn settled under the covers. Leaving for a moment, he made his way downstairs where he located more ginger ale, pouring it over ice, and a damp cloth for her forehead, as he had remembered Shirley Partridge using on Tracy. On the way back up to the children's room, he dropped in just long enough to pick up the Bufferin that was there and assure the two children once more that their mother would be fine, and that he would return in a few minutes.

"Love?" He leaned over her. "Carolyn, my dear, I brought you your medicine, and something to drink." He lifted her head slightly from the pillow and held the glass to her lips.

"I don't want anything to drink," she protested, swallowing anyway. "I'm not thirsty, just cold."

_Cold?_ Her skin felt hot — and oddly clammy. Sweaty. Nevertheless, he pulled another blanket from the closet.

"Carolyn, my dear, the doctor said you need to drink plenty of fluids. Now drink. He held the glass to her mouth once more. "Then you need to rest again."

"I can't," she sighed softly. "I ache all over, and I'm sweaty and bleachy. I feel... terrible."

"Of course you do, love, you aren't well."

"No, I'm not," she said, a small smile coming to her face as she sank back into the pillows. "The last time I felt like this I ended up waltzing with you. I don't suppose that will happen again."

"Waltzing? Carolyn love, what on earth do you mean?" Carefully, the seaman ran the cool cloth over her face and neck, smiling when she said it felt good. Success on some level, anyway.

"Hmmm… nice," the woman sighed, and started to drift off. "But I don't think I can waltz with you, right now... I don't feel good..."

"Carolyn, what do you mean, waltzing?" Daniel whispered. _Why did she get on the subject of waltzing whenever she was sick? _"I would love to waltz with you, but we haven't..."

She looked up at him. "That's when I knew I loved you," she said simply, closing her eyes once more. "That was when I knew I could never really live anywhere else but here... with you. I love you."

Within moments, she was asleep.

Exiting the room quietly, Daniel walked down the hall and entered the nursery. He found Candy and Jonathan in bed, but awake, and listlessly tossing a softball back and forth from one bed to the other. Jonathan caught the ball and held it when he saw the Captain enter the room.

"Hey, Captain!" Jonathan said. "How's Mom?"

"She's... resting," he answered, resolving not to say anything that might worry either of them, regardless how concerned he was himself. "I just gave her some more medicine and put her to bed."

"Willowbark?" the boy inquired.

The seaman shook his head. "No, Jonathan, not this time."

"Why not?" Candy asked. "Jonathan told me about how you made it when Mommy got sick before. I know we can't take it, because of the brandy, but maybe Mom..."

The spirit shook his head again. "No — number one, what you all have is not the Ague, it's more like varying versions of influenza. It wouldn't be good for you. Number two, we're out of brandy."

"And that's the keel!" said Jonathan, triumphantly, just before he started coughing again. Daniel came close to the boy's bed, and started thumping him on the back lightly. The boy's cough came to an abrupt halt, and he started speaking again. "Without the keel, the rest of the stuff the Captain uses is more like soup."

"Even the foxglove?" Candy sniffled. _"Atchooo!_ Sorry, Captain."

"Bless you. In answer to your question, Candy, I believe that foxglove can help you sleep, but nowadays I am told doctors really don't recommend it. Something about it affecting the heart." He smiled and tried to look more cheerful than he was feeling. "Now, what about you two?"

"I have a headache," Candy confessed. "And my nose is drippy, and my ears hurt."

"And you, Jonathan?"

"Same as Candy," he answered. "And coughing, but you know that. But it beats throwing up, I guess."

The Captain looked at the clock on the night stand. _Eight already. My morning is slipping away from me and I still have so much to get accomplished!_

"What about some nice breakfast?" he coaxed. "Oatmeal, maybe?"

Candy made a face.

"Eccchh. No thanks. I'm not hungry."

"Oh, come now... just a little something? What about you, Jonathan?" I could fry up some..."

The boy shook his head. "No thanks, Captain. I'm not hungry either. Thirsty, though. Can I have some more ginger ale?"

"Me, too, Captain?" Candy yawned. "I'm getting sleepy, but I don't want to wake up thirsty. My mouth gets that yucky taste, and…"

"Never mind, Candy." He stopped her, then looked at Jonathan's face and back at his sister's. "All right. Ginger ale. I am going to bring you both up two pieces of dry toast, also. The doctor said you have to get something down." Giving both their blonde heads a tousle, the Captain made his way to the door, and headed downstairs.

Daniel was back a few minutes later, and after watching the children drink their ginger ale, take their medicine, and rub more Vicks on their chests, he snuggled them down under the covers, reciting _Wynken, Blynken and Nod,_ as he had seen Carolyn do on more than one occasion, when one child or the other was ill. His soft, velvety baritone had lulled them to sleep by the end of the poem, and silently he left the room — leaving the door ajar only a touch as he had Carolyn's, so he could hear their call.

Making his way, not back to the kitchen where broken glass and a typewriter awaited him, but to the front porch of Gull Cottage, Daniel stared at the scenery in front of him.

_What to do? What to DO?_ He paced, pulling a cigar from his pocket and lit it. _Three sick ones, practically a whole story still to be typed, not to mention transcribing those blasted handwritten notes. I have no Martha, no powers, and no idea what's coming next! I can't call the doctor or a nurse or anyone to help now — I can't change form, and I'm a state secret. What is the answer?_

Reflecting, he paced down to the stone gate. _Carolyn will lose a good deal of money, not to mention the damage to her reputation as a writer if this story isn't finished on time, but she's just not capable right now. I could call and tell the magazine the circumstances, but how can I explain who I am without creating any outside gossip? This is, after all, the same magazine that published my version of Maiden Voyage, the story that gave Carolyn the reputation for being a 'wild woman.' No. Out of the question... better to try and get the story completed...somehow. Besides, I can take care of my family! _Resolutely, he ground the cigar to a pulp under his heel, and headed toward the house. Onward and upward.

xxxxxxxxxx

The next few hours did not go well for Daniel Gregg.

Working diligently, he managed to get ten more pages of the story typed, starting pages over more than four times because of mistakes. Then the interruptions started once again. The children alternately woke and slept, but never together, it seemed, and every time they woke, the shouts came from their room:

"Captain! It's too hot!"

"Captain! Can I have another blanket?"

"Captain! Can we have some more ginger ale?"

"Captain Gregg!"

Each time, he brought them what they needed, and reminded them that their mother, who had awakened and fallen back to sleep twice herself, was resting, and shouldn't be disturbed.

The fifth time the children called, he was positively grumpy on the subject.

"HOW MANY TIMES..." he started, before remembering that he wasn't supposed to bellow either... "How many times must I tell you not to shout?" he whispered breathlessly after climbing the stairs once again. "You'll wake your mother!"

"And how come you aren't popping upstairs?" Candy demanded. "We tried just saying your name — It worked before, but it doesn't now, and since when do you have to use the stairs, anyway?"

Daniel looked taken aback. "Well, I..."

"Did you lose your powers again, Captain?" Jonathan looked concerned. "Did that ship come back?"

Candy's eyes grew big. "I'm sorry, Captain! I thought that could only happen once every seven years."

"Yes I have, Jonathan and no, Candy, it's not the Sea Vulture." He shrugged. "Quite frankly, I have no idea why I am suddenly powerless, but I have been too busy to find out, and have no one I can reach to ask. But I didn't want to worry you."

"Why, Captain?" Candy asked. "You worry about us."

"Wow." Jonathan looked anxious. "Are you hurting or anything?"

Daniel shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I feel fine. My usual self. I just can't levitate, or walk through walls, or re-arrange molecules, or create a thunderstorm, or even a stiff breeze, and I can't home in on you when you say my name, like I could yesterday. But... not to worry!" he smiled again. "I just need your cooperation for a while. I'm still working on your mother's story — which reminds me, I need to go check in on her."

"But what about you?" Candy asked, and Jonathan's eyes asked the question also.

"I'll be fine. As soon as you all are feeling better, I'll... I'll call someone..."

"Like your spectral fraternity?" Jonathan piped up.

"Yes, Jonathan. But listen, you two..." He gave them a stern, but loving look. "Try to cuddle up, and get some sleep, all right? And no more bellowing, please. If you really need something, take the back stairs, and come and get me. I'm keeping your mother's door as closed as I can to block out the noise, but I can't close it all the way, or I can't hear her if she calls."

"Okay," they both nodded. "But when we are well, we won't need any sleep at all! We'll have all this extra sleep stored up."

"Talk to your mother about that!" he grinned, and adjusted the curtains at the window. Then, giving them both a kiss on the forehead, he bade them sweet dreams.

As soon as the seaman had left the room, Jonathan turned to his sister.

"Don't worry, Candy. Captain Gregg won't let anything happen to us."

"Okay," Candy mumbled. "But I hope the Captain does okay with that story. Mom's handwriting is terrible."

Within minutes, both were asleep.

**Schooner Bay**

Claymore Gregg perused the local drug/grocery store in town, contentedly. It was so nice to wander the aisles quietly — no running into small children or being bumped with grocery carts by busy housewives! _Guess it's because so many people are down with the flu,_ he mused as he snatched two or three grapes from the fruit-stand and munched them thoughtfully. "These are good," he muttered, and quickly he grabbed a few more and gobbled them before Frank Kensington, the local store-owner and druggist, could see what he was doing and stop him. As he rounded the corner, he narrowly missed running into Nancy Ferguson — her arms full of bottled ginger ale, aspirin, cough medicine and two boxes of tissues.

"Claymore!" she started. "You're here? I thought you'd still be out at Gull Cottage! Did the advice I gave you help?"

"Advice?" the landlord repeated, blankly.

"Yes... you know... the flu? About the Vicks and Bufferin and so on? I'm sorry I couldn't get out there to take a look at everyone, but when the available doctors are patients too..." Her voice trailed off, as she shifted the objects she was carrying. "I must say, Claymore, it's really sweet of you to spend your time out there helping in this emergency. A lot of people wouldn't. I think it's an incredibly compassionate thing you are doing, and I am going to tell Bruce how nice you were to help out, just as soon as he is feeling better."

Bewildered didn't begin to describe what Claymore was feeling, but he had gotten good at faking it over the years.

"Yes, well, I'm not just a landlord, you know..." He pursed his lips. "I'm a friend, a humanitarian... a leader in this town and community. And as a leading citizen of this town, I felt it my civic duty to help out in this catastrophe." _Whatever it is,_ he thought to himself. "And you know, Nancy, I..."

_Now THIS is more the Claymore Gregg I know!_ Nancy smiled inwardly as she started inching away from the talkative man. "Yes, well, I am sure you will continue to do fine, but listen, I need to get going. Bruce is waiting for me to get back. I have the medicine he needs." She was further away now. "Just remember, call me if you have any more questions, and I'll try to help, but I doubt if I can get out there, or Bruce either. At this rate, YOUR patients will recover first. Good luck again, Claymore! I hope everything goes well!" Nancy Ferguson turned the corner, and was gone.

Claymore stared after her, his thoughts in a whirl. _Bufferin? Vicks? I'm helping? Who am I helping? Those were medical supplies Nancy was carrying, and she said Doctor Ferguson is sick, TOO, so someone at Gull Cottage must be ill — maybe MORE than one person! And someone imitated MY voice! _Alone in his thoughts, Claymore could be honest with himself. _It must have been Spooky on the phone — and the only way my uncle would fake being ME, of all people, is if he is desperate._ Real worry began to nag at the already consistently worried-looking man.

Squaring his shoulders, Claymore decided to make a trip out to where he least wanted to go... to protect his rental property... renters, if nothing else. But not without a little preparation! He grabbed Frank Kensington's arm as the store-owner passed by.

"What do you want, Claymore?" Frank gave him a tired smile. "Let go of me, please. No free samples today. And I don't have any day-old bread left, or broken muffins, or bacon ends either. Yes, peanut butter is still on sale. Just the creamy kind, we're still out of crunchy, and no, jelly isn't at half-price to make up for the crunchy peanut butter, and no we don't have any specials on bird seed this week. Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm..."

"I wasn't going to ask you about ANY of those things!" Claymore pouted, letting go of the man's arm. "I... I'm on a mercy mission here... I think there are sick folks out at Gull Cottage, and…"

Frank nodded. "Well, I know for a fact that the little girl is. Mrs. Muir was in here yesterday, picking up some supplies. Said she took ill in the middle of assembly. Wouldn't surprise me a bit if the boy... Jonathan, ain't it? is down with it too, by now. All three of my girls have it. My wife Mazie is going to get it too, if she's not careful, much as she has been nursing them."

"Candy and Jonathan?" Claymore frowned. _The Captain would never imitate me on the phone for just the kids... not that they aren't nice children..._

"Felt right sorry for Mrs. Muir when she was in here yesterday," Frank continued. "Here she was, a sick little girl, Martha Grant is away, and she mentioned something about a writing deadline, too. And between you and me, I don't think Mrs. Muir was looking any too spry, either."

Claymore snapped his fingers.

"That has to be it!" he whispered. "Spooky called because..." Stopping himself, he grabbed the man's arm again. "Listen, Frank, I think I'll make a little run out there — Mrs. Muir is my client, you know. I need to protect my interests. What all do you think I might bring?"

"You offern' to go there?" Frank asked, doubtfully.

"Yes... just to see what's up. It's my good deed for the week." Claymore looked at his watch.

"Well, I think that's right nice of you, Claymore!" Frank said, still only half believing what his ears were hearing.

"What should I bring?" Claymore repeated, a bit edgier. "I don't have all day, you know."

"I still have plenty of everything, right over here," Frank soothed him. "Bread for toast, Ginger ale, Bufferin, soup, cough medicine, and tissues." As he spoke, Frank grabbed the items he mentioned and rung them up.

"Just charge all that stuff to Mrs. Muir's account, Frank," said Claymore, turning to leave, bags in hand.

Frank Kensington made a lunge for the bags, pulling them back.

"Sorry, Claymore. No-can-do," he said, placing them on the floor behind the counter. "Mrs. Muir gave me a real talkin' to for letting you charge all that baby stuff to her account, Christmas before last. I don't ever want to go through that again!"

"But this stuff is for her, not some little baby!" Claymore protested.

"Doesn't matter," Frank shook his head. "You want it. You pay for it. You can always settle up with Mrs. Muir, later. She's an honorable woman. I'm sure she'll reimburse you."

"But..."

"Claymore, the total is only five ninety eight. Hardly a fortune."

"I can't believe I am saying this, but go ahead," Claymore muttered.

"Go ahead and what, Claymore?" Frank smiled. "I need to hear it."

"Charge it to my account," Claymore said quickly. If you said it fast enough, and it didn't hurt so much.

"That's all I needed to hear," Frank grinned, reached for the bags, and placed them on the counter in front of Claymore. "Give Mrs. Muir and her family my regards, and wishes for a speedy recovery, won't you?"

"I think they'd rather have an extra bottle of ginger ale," Claymore muttered, and stalked toward the door.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Dear heavens, I'm am **tired! **How am I ever going to keep up with things? _Daniel thought, as he hurriedly swept up the broken glass in the kitchen. _Taking care of my family, the housework, the laundry... getting this blasted story typed without my powers? I barely kept up when I still had them... Now? Why did it happen **now? **_He thought of his lady, asleep upstairs._ If I am being punished for daring to defy the conventions of ghost-hood, couldn't whoever was in charge of that have waited a few days? Perhaps it is fatigue, related to me being able to become solid... or there's another curse I don't know about – another Dutchman? a siren's curse... or... or... Blast it... something else?_

Daniel heard Jonathan coughing, which solidified his decision.

_Does it really matter WHY I am powerless?_ The spirit asked himself. Then he nodded, determined._ I'm not debilitated, or suffering, but I am in solid form, thank heavens, so I can either stand here, pondering the why's, or do what I have to do now and deal with the problem of why, when and if I have time to do so! _Resolutely, he sat down once more in front of the typewriter, but before he could hit the first key, a knock came at the front door of Gull Cottage.

Daniel looked up with a start._ Visitors? Blast... now? I can't change my appearance! What if the peep has managed to make it after all? I have to answer... and quickly too! _The knock came again_. Before whoever it is wakes everyone in the house! _Quickly, he made his way to the foyer, his hand hesitating over the doorknob._ Blast! I should have listened when Martha wanted Ed to install that peephole! But no — stupidly, I maintained I could see all who come and go here! _He sighed_. Well, if I must, I can pretend to be that rascal Callahan... _he opened the door, cautiously.

"C-Captain Gregg?" Claymore Gregg's owlish face peered at him from the front porch. "Captain, are you... that is... is everything all right here? I heard that..."

"Claymore! My good fellow... how marvelous it is to see you!" The seaman looked at the other man with unadulterated delight.

"Y-y-y-you are-ARE?" Claymore answered, warily. "C-c-c-c-Captain, you told me... you PROMISED you wouldn't be mean to me now that you can touch again… now don't… don't beat me up, I haven't done anything to you…"

"Mean to you, dear boy? I'm delighted you are here! Do come in!" The seaman practically dragged him into the foyer and before he knew it, had divested Claymore of his hat and coat. "Delighted to see you, dear fellow. Delighted."

_"Delighted? _Oh, Captain, please, don't torment me. I just heard that there were sick people and I… I brought out a few things. It's a mercy mission… no charge."

"No charge?" Daniel gaped at him. "I think you must be sicker than anyone out here at Gull Cottage is. Including whatever is wrong with me."

"With you?" Claymore dropped to the couch. "What's the matter with you?"

"I… well, I seem to have lost my powers again." Daniel gave his 'nephew' a fierce look. "And don't go getting any ideas. Powers, or no powers I can still…"

"You... you don't have any powers?" Claymore asked, unbelieving. "None at all? What happened? Is the Frenchman back?"

"Dutchman, you nincom..." The spirit stopped, remembering his real goal. Insulting Claymore wouldn't help. "No… it's not the Dutchman. At least I don't think it is. I don't see any ship out there, and I would, if it were he. I just… don't have any powers. None at all. I'm as mortal as you are at the moment..." He glared at the man. "Mortal but not weak, if you get my meaning."

"Well, gee Captain... that's too bad, but you see I just came out here to check on things. I really hadn't planned on..."

"Claymore! You aren't going anywhere!"

"Well, I don't know, I..."

"Claymore..."

"Well, at least let me think about this, Captain." Claymore scratched his head. "Before you make me say yes. This is weird... no powers? Just out of the blue? Doesn't seem logical to me. Think maybe it has anything to do with you being able to touch now?"

His benighted nephew's remark echoed his own recent thoughts too closely for comfort, and gave rise to thoughts he would rather not think about.

"I have no idea," Daniel snapped back. "And quite frankly, this is not the time to experiment. I'll just have to worry about it later."

"But I'll get the flu bug too, Captain," Claymore objected, suddenly logical again. "You know what a delicate constitution I have! I just came out here to drop off these..." he held up the bags, still in his hand.

"And I appreciate it, Claymore," Daniel answered. "If you get sick later someone will take care of you. Right now I need HELP."

"Help?" Claymore scoffed. "You don't need my help. You're perfect. Mister super-spirit, remember? I think I'll just be running along now."

"And you are incredibly annoying," Daniel growled. "I see your drop of consideration for your tenants hasn't extended to me."

"So you gonna kill me or something?" Claymore asked, looking resigned. "If you are, just do it, and get it over with. Might be easier than spending time here with you, I mean..."

The Captain looked tired. "Don't tempt me, Claymore. But I can't kill something… someone, just because it's annoying. Schooner Bay would be emptied in no time."

"You promise?"

"Of course I do, you idiot. Besides, with my powers suddenly gone, I don't have the energy to kill you, and take care of the Muirs. Now come on. Let's get to work." Daniel stood and grabbed his 'nephew's' arm and practically dragged Claymore after him as he made his way to the kitchen. "I have Carolyn's story to clean type. Candy and Jonathan are sick, Carolyn is sicker. I need your help and I don't want any trickery from you. I'm still the strongest..."

"...Man in New England." Claymore finished. "Don't worry Captain. I learned my lesson the last time around."

Gesturing to the papers all over the kitchen table and surrounding area, Daniel endeavored to explain the seriousness of the story deadline and what he was trying to accomplish, ending with: "So you see, Claymore, I have forty-eight hours to turn this..." He held up a large sheath of Carolyn's typed, edited, and handwritten pages, "...Into this." He held up his thin pile of typed material. "Needless to say, if Carolyn were doing this, no doubt she would be halfway finished now, but between my much more limited typing abilities, and trying to take care of the children and Carolyn, and handle a few chores around here, my task has not been going as quickly as it should."

"Fascinating," Claymore commented. "Tell me, does Mrs. Muir always work with all this..." He fanned his hand over the messy work area. "...clutter?"

"Some," the seaman seethed, trying to keep his temper. _Claymore commenting about the shape of HIS desk!_ "And you are a fine one to talk about clutter. I've SEEN your office, remember?"

"Well, you have a point there, I admit." Claymore nodded his head. "What's that saying? _A clean desk is the sign of a sick mind?_ That's my motto! The truly creative, like myself, and Mrs. Muir of course, don't bother ourselves with trivia. We're much more concerned with our genius and things of that nature. I suppose Mrs. Muir's story is another sea-yarn. She... or is it you? is building quite a reputation for those!"

"It's Carolyn," Daniel commented, wishing Claymore would stop prattling. "I provide technical help when she asks for it. Occasionally I proofread. Now Claymore, what I was saying, here is what needs to be done..."

"But what's the story about?" Claymore asked.

"It's about a woman, an actress," Daniel said. "Part of it is in flashback, and she's reading her mother's journal and she..." He broke off. "I'm not here to tell you a bedtime story, Claymore! You're here to help me. The Muirs, I mean! Now, you miserable..." Claymore stepped backwards, physically avoiding the Captain's acid tones, and the heel of his shoe came down on a piece of broken glass, turning it almost to powder. He looked alarmed for a moment, then defiant.

"I didn't break anything!"

"I know that," Daniel sighed. "I did."

"You?"

The seaman nodded. "Aye. That's when I realized my powers were gone. I was a pitcher, and then... never mind. You can start with sweeping the floor again, just to make sure I didn't miss anything else. I was in a hurry. I didn't want Scruffy coming in and hurting himself. He's up with the children, by the way. I have to get started on this." He gestured to the table again.

"Aye-Aye, Captain!" Claymore gave a clumsy salute, resigned to the idea that he was here for the duration. "Where does Martha keep the broom?"

"On the laundry porch, naturally," the spirit answered. "Except for right now, because I just used it. It's right over there," he pointed to it. "Now stop asking questions. Will you just please get busy?"

"Grumpy!" Claymore sniffed. "Amazing you got anyone to do anything for you asking for things with that attitude."

"On board my ships, I didn't ASK for things to be done, I ORDERED my men to get things done," the Captain retorted. "And they did as commanded, if they knew what was good for them. Now get moving." Adjusting the latest sheet of copy, he started typing.

Except for the sound of the typewriter and the swish of the broom, there was silence in the kitchen for about five minutes, punctuated only when Claymore asked the spirit to lift his feet so he could sweep under the table. When he had the project finished, he looked at his 'uncle,' who had stopped to correct yet another mistake.

"Now what?" he asked brightly, hoping by some wild bit of luck the Captain would tell him to go home.

Not a chance.

"There might still be slivers of glass on the floor, and it needs it anyway — swab the deck, Claymore."

Claymore glanced at the floor, thoughtfully.

"It looks pretty clean to me, Captain. I think I got all the..."

"I SAID, swab the deck, Claymore!"

Noting the tone of the seaman's voice, Claymore sighed and went to fetch the mop and pail he had seen on the laundry porch, knocking them over in the process. This startled the Captain, causing him to make yet another mistake.

"Blast!"

"Uhm, just... don't mind me, uncle, I can handle it!" Claymore shouted from the porch, and started running water in the bucket from the laundry room sink.

"You keep making noise like you are making, and I'll SHOW you how much I mind!" the spirit muttered, grabbing the eraser.

Claymore made his way back to the kitchen with the broom and mop and started his next project. After a few minutes, the Captain spoke. "You benighted barnacle! Have you learned NOTHING since last year and the Centennial contests? You still swab a deck like a landlubber!"

"I AM a landlubber," Claymore returned. "You're the sailor."

"Seaman, blast it. You want to be a Gregg, act like one. I learned how to swab a deck as a mere lad. And Elroy Applegate could make a better job of it than you are doing, at the moment."

"Well, I didn't learn, Captain. I'm doing my best. You really like picking on me, don't you?" Claymore sighed.

"It helps pass the time," he answered, laconically.

"Ha. I thought you were busy, Captain," Claymore looked tired.

"Force of habit. I AM busy."

"I guess I better get finished here," the landlord sighed, and in due time, he was.

xxxxxxxxxx

Daniel stared at the sheet of paper in front of him. The page was typed, but there were also notes in the margins, strike throughs, and proof-marks un-deleting the deletions. The Captain squinted at the page.

"Need glasses, Captain?" Claymore asked, coming back into the kitchen from where he was putting the bucket and swab away. Daniel glared at him.

"My eyes happen to be perfect. They were perfect when I died, and they'll stay that way. It's my dear Carolyn's handwriting that leaves something to be desired." He pointed to the sheet in front of him. "Come here. Claymore, what is that word?" The Captain turns the sheet upside down. "Total gibberish. What HAS she written here?"

Taking the paper from the seaman, Claymore read aloud:

_"Either Jareth's observational skills were excellent and the room was a product of the combination of those results with the desire to please her in mind, or the standard here was simply one she liked..._

Seems pretty clear to me, Captain." He shrugged. "Jareth? What kind of name is that? I think it's a typo. I think she meant Jared. Or maybe Garth?"

"No…" the Captain shook his head. "It's **Jareth**, not **Jared**, see? **eth**, not **ed**."

"No, that's a **G**..." Clay argued, practically leaning in the Captain's face.

"It's **JARETH! **not **Jared**, **Gareth**, **Jarrod**, or any other variation!" The Captain gave him a dirty look. "Claymore…"

Claymore picked up the next page, and scanned it quickly. "And who IS the heroine in this story? Here she has Sarah..." He pointed further down. "And there's Christine. What is it?"

"Who is it," said Daniel.

"No, you dolt. I mean referring to a person is: **who** is it, not **what** is it."

"Tomayto, Tomahto," the other man shrugged, backing off. "You know..." Claymore changed the subject. "For someone who just wrote a book, you sure don't type very fast."

"Can you do better?" The spirit was seething.

"Well, no..." Claymore scratched his head. "Not really. In my line of work I don't have to type fast, just well enough to fill out the occasional form. But I'm a whiz with a ten-key."

"Great, you're only sixteen keys short of being any use at all."

"You're not being very nice!"

The seaman blew out a breath. _There was still so much to do!_

"Well, despite being a landlubber, Claymore, you finished the kitchen credibly, now - here's a list of other chores that have fallen behind.**"**

Grabbing the list, Claymore scanned it.

"Dusting, vacuuming, laundry... All this?" His voice took on a plaintive tone again.

"Yes, and start with the laundry," the seaman said. "There was plenty to do before the children got sick, and now..."

"Never mind, I get your drift," Claymore interrupted him. "Okay, but I still want to know how doing something NICE for someone makes me end up getting treated like a common deck-hand."

"I would be doing it myself, if I wasn't busy here," Daniel answered. "Now cast off."

Claymore retreated to the laundry porch, where he loaded the washing machine to the brim with soiled sheets, towels, and the children's blue jeans. Throwing in the soap, he closed the lid and headed toward the living room. About ten minutes later, Daniel heard the roar of the vacuum cleaner. Wonderful. More noise. He began again and stopped, hitting another wrong key. _Blast. _Before he could reach for the eraser, Jonathan and Candy appeared, having come down the back stairs, to the kitchen.

"Why are you sweeping the rug now, Captain?" Candy asked, looking sleepy. "You woke us up."

"Yeah," Jonathan agreed, nodding his head.

"Blast!" Daniel slapped the eraser pencil down on the desk. "It's not me, it's..." He paused. "Your mother, is she..."

"I think so," Candy sighed.

"Claymore!" In one motion, the Daniel made a dash for the living room, yanking the plug out of the wall by the cord, not damaging it. Putting an abrupt halt to the noise, he made his way upstairs.

Carolyn WAS awake, if not entirely lucid. Hot, sweaty and groggy would be a much better description. Removing one of the blankets, the Captain eased her back into bed, stroking her sweaty forehead. She started slipping back to an uneasy sleep and the spirit turned to leave.

"Daniel?" A sleepy voice came from behind him.

In an instant, he was at her side.

"Yes love?"

"Daniel, I'm glad you and your friends are having a good time, but you... could you be a bit more quiet? I... I need to sleep."

"Friends, love?"

"Jareth and Sarah," she murmured.

"Oh, Carolyn, they're..." He smiled. "Never mind, darling. I shall try very hard not to disturb you again." He left the room a few minutes later, and made his way down the hall to the nursery, where the children were waiting for him.

xxxxxxxxxx

As he came in the door, the children and Claymore looked toward him, expectantly.

"How's Mom?" Jonathan inquired, and coughed again.

"Yeah," Candy added, then she sneezed. "Did the vacuum cleaner wake her up?"

"Bless you. Yes, it did, but she's resting again, now," the Captain answered. The relieved tone in his voice was unmistakable. He looked at them sternly. "And what are you two doing out of bed?"

"Waiting for you to tell us if Mommy is okay," Candy said, with all the aplomb she could muster. "Claymore was keeping us company."

The seaman's gaze shifted to his 'nephew.'

"And how, precisely were you doing that? You should be downstairs, working."

"I WAS working!" Claymore said, defensively. "But you stopped me! And now I was... I was amusing the children... that's working, right, kids?" He looked at the children. "We were going to play a game."

"Like blazes you are!" the Captain snapped back, and he looked back to the children. "Medicine for you two, then, back to bed. You need your rest." He glared at Claymore. "And you... back to work!"

"Sheesh," Claymore muttered. "We aren't on board ship here! Well, if we can't play a game, at least let me stay and see what medicine I am supposed to give Candy and Jonathan — if you ever let me, that is."

"I'll tell you later," The Captain looked at the man impatiently. "In the meantime, why don't you go find some fresh hand towels? The children will need them, along with the Vicks, in a few minutes."

"Bossy..." Claymore started, but then turned on his heel, and the other occupants in the room could hear him muttering something about "know-it-all ghosties" as he left.

The children shrugged and settled into bed again — a sure sign, the Captain reasoned, that they weren't well yet. If they were, they would have argued more.

"I don't want to take any more medicine," Candy glared at the bottle of cough medicine the Captain now held in his hand. "That stuff tastes horrible."

"Well, it's medicine," the spirit shrugged. "I'm sure it doesn't taste like cherry soda. You're lucky to have it, you know. We didn't have such things when I was your age. Now, down the hatch."

Making another face, Candy took her dose, shuddered, and followed immediately with her remaining ginger ale, her glass still on the night stand.

Picking up another spoon, no sense mixing germs, the Captain turned to Jonathan.

"I suppose you're going to say it tastes 'yucky,' too, lad?"

Jonathan considered. "No, I think it's more icky."

"Oh, come now," the Captain said gently. "You two are making too much of this! How bad can it be?"

"Taste it, Captain!" Candy retorted. "You'll see!"

"Yeah," Jonathan nodded. "Try it."

"Only after you take yours, my boy," the Captain bargained, sensing an easy victory.

Jonathan snuck a look at his sister, who raised her eyebrows slightly, and nodded. Manfully, Jonathan took his dose, and made a horrible face, as his sister had. He followed with a drink, also.

"Now you, Captain!" they said together.

Unhesitating, the spirit put his finger in the cap of the bottle, swirled it around, catching the liquid that was there, and put it to his lips, tasting it. "Euchhhh!" he sputtered, making as dismayed a face as the children had, and a tremor went through his body. He looked apologetically at the two flushed, but grinning faces in front of him. "Candy... Jonathan..." his face was solemn. "You're right. That concoction tastes atrocious."

"Told you!" they said together.

"So does this mean we don't have to take it any more?" Jonathan asked, hopefully.

"No, it just means I am sorry that you do have to take it," the seaman grinned, and tousled Jonathan's blonde head.

"Blast," was Jonathan's only comment.

Claymore came bustling back into the room bearing fresh hand towels.

"Mentholadium right here, Captain," he said, holding up the green and white jar.

"What's that for?" the Captain inquired.

"Why to rub on their chests, of course!" Claymore answered, surprised. "I was so glad to see it in the medicine chest, I'll tell you. It's what my mother always used on me when I was growing up. She said it was the only thing there was when it came to flu and respiratory stuff, and coughs, like Jonathan — "

"Nonsense," the Captain cut him off. "Vicks is in order, here. I know that for a fact. It's what Carolyn and Shirley Partridge used when Tracy was here and sick, and — "

"Then why is there Mentholadum in the bathroom?" Claymore interrupted, a demanding edge to his voice.

"Well, actually," said Candy, "Mom likes Vicks, but Martha likes Mentholadum when she's sick, so we have both..."

"But Mom has used it too..." put in Jonathan. "I remember the last time when..."

"But Vicks smells better," Candy added. "And Mom says it's is better for your sinuses."

"Vicks," said the Captain, firmly, and watched as the two children took spread the medicine on their chests themselves, inspecting them when they were done. Fresh towels were provided, and Daniel handed the dirty ones to Claymore, who made a face. The towels did feel, and smell... sickly, for lack of a better word.

"And while we are on the subject of medicine, and stuff like that," said Claymore, "My mother always gave me Seven-Up when I was sick. She said it was better on upset stomachs, unless you can find Cola syrup. I remember when she — "

"Your mother..." The Captain stopped, not wanting to insult mothers in general with the children in the room, and he reminded himself again how much he still needed Claymore. "We don't have Seven-Up, we have ginger ale, and it IS what the doctor said to use, and..."

"Well, can we have some more of SOMETHING to drink, Captain?" Candy asked. "My stomach is still kind of bouncy, and..."

A loud thumping and a strange grinding noise came from downstairs.

The seaman uttered a silent oath.

"What in the world can that be?" Claymore asked. "Captain, are you doing that?"

"Of course I'm not! I have no powers, remember?"

"Oh, yeah, I..."

"Well, don't just stand here nattering like a fool, go downstairs and see what you have done now!"

"Yesssir!" Claymore saluted, dropped the dirty towels on the floor, and made a dash for the door. Less than thirty seconds later, the noises ceased.

"Children..." The Captain looked at brother and sister, hurriedly. "Please, go to bed, I'll bring a little more ginger ale upstairs as soon as I can. Call me if you need anything..." He gave them both a kiss on the forehead, and out of habit, tried to 'pop' out of the room. Of course, nothing happened. Uttering another oath under his breath, one much stronger than his usual "blast," the grounded spirit made a run for the stairs.

The children snuggled down deeper into their respective beds.

"Think we ought to go help?" Candy asked her brother. "I think that noise might have been the washing machine."

"Naa, the Captain can handle things," Jonathan yawned, and closed his eyes.

"Okay..." Candy shrugged. "I guess you're right." Then her eyelids fluttered and shut, and soon, both were asleep.

xxxxxxxxxx

The spirit of Gull Cottage found Claymore out on the laundry porch, playing tug of war with the washing machine... A sheet in the washing machine, actually... wrapped around the agitator. A few soaking wet towels had been pulled from the load already, and were now slopped over the side of the machine, the water from the towels dripping onto the tiled floor.

"WHAT ON EARTH HAVE YOU DONE NOW, YOU, YOU NUMBSKULL!" the spirit bellowed, before remembering he had sleeping people upstairs. "Claymore, what... what idiotic thing have you done?" he asked, his voice was much quieter, but the icy tone left no doubt in Claymore's mind as to his 'uncle's' mood.

"I... I guess I put too much in the washer," Claymore cowered. "I... I'm sorry, Captain, I..."

_"Henry II, Richard I, the Lionhearted, John, Henry III, Edward I, Edward II, Edward III..."_ The seaman reached for one of the wet towels, and started wringing the dirty water out into the washing machine.

"Captain..." Claymore looked startled now as much as apologetic. "What are you..."

"Stop talking, you lout, if you know what's good for you!" Daniel went back to muttering: _"Richard II, Henry IV, Henry V, Henry VI..."_ his voice trailed off.

"Captain, what was THAT all about?" Claymore asked, unable to control his curiosity.

"The Plantagenet," Daniel answered briefly. "Just reciting the kings of England. Much more interesting than counting to ten to keep my temper and the only way I can think of not to STRANGLE you right now! What on EARTH were you thinking of! Overloading the washer! Can't I trust you to handle one simple project without fubaring it? Start wringing out this laundry, you pathetic excuse for a..." He broke off, unable to think of words to convey his feelings.

"Fubar?" Claymore asked, finally disengaging the sheet from the washer and twisting most of the water out of it. "Do I want to know what that word means?"

"Not very likely," the seaman growled, reaching for another towel, twisting it savagely. Claymore gulped, wondering if perhaps the spirit was wishing it was his neck he was twisting with such vigor. "And you better pray to the good Lord above that all you did was overload this machine and not break it, Claymore, because if you have, I'll..."

"But I don't understand!" Claymore looked stricken — and honestly puzzled. "I do it this way all the time at the laundromat. I've never had any problems before! I was just trying to save a little time, and... and soap, and water! Less loads, you know! Just stuff a few extra pieces in there, and I only have to do three loads every week, nor four, and..." He started wringing out a pair of Jonathan's blue jeans. Not an easy task.

"This is not a commercial machine, Claymore! And you shouldn't do it at the laundromat, either! What do you save yourself a week? A quarter?"

"A quarter here, quarter there, it adds up, Captain." Claymore maintained, still defensive. "Why that's..."

"...Thirteen dollars a year," the Captain stormed, "And what do you think it will cost you if you have broken this machine? Carolyn just paid good money to get it fixed! And what about the dryer? You told Mrs. Muir you were going to look at it!"

"I will! I will!" Claymore whined, and grabbed the last wet towel, slopping more water on the floor.

With the last of the laundry wrung out and piled on the non-working dryer, the two men crossed their fingers and turn the washer to 'spin,' hoping it would drain properly. They gave a mutual sigh of relief when the water started coming out the hose and into the laundry room sink, the machine making no noises.

"Now mop up that water, you jellyfish. Move it." The seaman peered back into the machine again. "I do believe we were fortunate this time. The washer hasn't been permanently damaged, no thanks to you." He grabbed one of the sheets, still dripping, and twisted the remaining water into the sink, and watched as Claymore took the mop, still wet from his earlier kitchen endeavors, and mopped up the remaining water.

"Well, at least the floor is clean…" He gave Daniel a weak smile.

"Not exactly the way I would have gone about it," the Captain said dryly. "Do me a favor, Claymore... I know it's difficult for you... but please, be careful, and try not to do anything else... stupid."

"Stupid?" Claymore looked wounded, and sniffed. "People aren't perfect, Uncle. People have the right to be stupid... sometimes," he added hurriedly.

"Some people, like you, abuse that privilege... And don't call me uncle!" Daniel stormed.

"Just trying to be friendly," Claymore sighed.

"I don't want to be friendly," Daniel snapped. "I have work to do." The washing machine came to a halt. "Now let's get this contraption loaded... I suppose this time I'll have to show you how it's done."

Carefully, the Captain took some of the wet clothes they had just wrung out and placed them evenly in the washing machine. "See this line, Claymore?" He pointed to a white line on the inside of the drum. "The clothes can't go past here. If they do, it means you've overloaded it."

"So that's what that line is for!" Claymore said, the light bulb popping on over his head. "Who told you about this, Captain?"

"Three years of seeing my crew operate, Claymore, and I am bound to learn something... And you can too!" With several large towels and three pairs of blue jeans left, the Captain stopped loading, and sprinkled in some detergent.

"Hey — there' still room left, Captain..." Claymore pointed. "You're nowhere near the line."

"You dull-witted... doorknob!" His voice began to rise again "That's because the clothes are WET, Claymore. If we put all the wet clothes back in there, we will be right back where we started."

"Oh..." Claymore said, clucking his tongue. "I suppose we ought not, then."

Refraining from further comment, the Captain started the washer, turned on his heel and made his way back to the kitchen, Claymore in his wake.

Daniel turned to the hapless man, still seething. "I am going to go check in on Carolyn before I get back to her story. It's been a while since I have, and I want to make sure she is all right. I trust you can find something to do? Finishing the dusting and sweeping you started an hour ago would make sense. You can use the little carpet sweeper. The one you don't plug in. It's in the alcove."

Claymore nodded.

"What's the matter man? Cat got your tongue? Speak!"

"Yes, Captain," Claymore mumbled, ruing the day and wishing he had never HEARD of the flu, the Muirs, Gull Cottage, and particularly Daniel Gregg. "I.. I'm sorry about the washer. I'll try to do better."

"See to it that you do," the spirit responded, and headed for the stairs.

xxxxxxxxxx

He was back about five minutes later, reporting that Carolyn was sleeping and it seemed that she had been undisturbed by the hubbub earlier. The two men went to work, interrupted only by the children's calls. As ordered, Claymore handled most of the duties in sick bay. But after several runs up and down stairs, Claymore returned to the kitchen.

"What did they want this time?" The spirit demanded. He was finally making a little progress with the blasted story.

"They want you."

"But what did they WANT?" Daniel sighed.

"I forgot to check..."

Claymore ran back upstairs again, and a few minutes later, he was back in the kitchen.

"Well?" Daniel asked. "Is anyone in pain? Throw… using the facilities?"

"They're not doing that, but they wouldn't tell me what they want," Claymore answered, sounding depressed. "They just looked unhappy to see me and said they wanted YOU."

"Tell them I can't right now, and I'll try to be up later, I'm working."

"Captain, I..."

"TELL them I'll be up LATER!"

"But, really, I..."

"GO!"

Claymore made for the stairs, turning back to comment, "What am I, Captain? a yo-yo?" As the ghost opened his mouth to reply, Claymore thought better of the question, "Don't answer that."

"Yo-yo brained," the seaman muttered, and went back to work.

xxxxxxxxxx

Daniel Gregg continued typing... and erasing, and typing some more, blasting every time he had to start over again, which happened more often than he cared it to. Carolyn slept, the children alternately slept and woke, and at eleven thirty, Claymore took a break from his 'housekeeping,' such as it was, and came out to the kitchen.

"Captain?" he asked, timidly.

The spirit looked tired.

"Yes?"

"I... I've finished the dusting and sweeping, and put everything where it belongs, and hung up a load of laundry and started another. I was wondering, is it time for the children to have another dose of their medicine? I was thinking it might be... and if you want, I can start heating up some soup for their lunch. They haven't said they were hungry, but didn't you say Nancy said they were supposed to eat? Broth, at least?"

The spirit looked at the clock on the wall.

"Heavens, you're right. Eleven-thirty already. Almost lunchtime." It was infuriating. Claymore had actually managed to accomplish a great deal, while he, Daniel Gregg, seemed to be confounded at every turn, having to start over multiple times on what should be a simple endeavor. "Yes, the children do need to eat. More broth and dry toast. Good idea, Claymore. Best get to that."

Claymore fumbled with the can opener, explaining even before the Captain said anything that he only had a manual one at home. Pouring the soup and water into the pan, Claymore stirred slowly until it was well mixed, and then went to the breadbox, pulling some out and inserting two slices into the toaster.

"Think I should butter it this time, Captain?"

"Hmm?"

"Butter it. The toast for the kids."

"Better not, yet. Nancy Ferguson said go lightly or non-existent on dairy products."

"Why?"

"Does things to their southern end."

"Southern end?"

"Think about it, Claymore," said the seaman, and he continued to type.

Shrugging, the lanky man went back to his soup tending. About five minutes later, he turned back to the spirit. "Ohhh... I get it, Captain!"

"Longest double take in history." Turning back to his papers, the Captain chuckled.

"We can't all be great wits, like you," Claymore huffed.

"I wasn't laughing at you, I was smiling at something Carolyn wrote," the Captain said, pointing to the sheet he was typing from, and he chuckled again.

Claymore looked at him. "What?"

"This line here..." he smiled again. _"...most _of my family is not worth killing..."

"Yeah, right." Claymore said, ladling the broth into bowls. "Very funny... Did she get that one from you?"

The Captain shrugged, innocently.

"That's what I thought."

Grabbing the tray laden with broth, toast and more ginger ale, Claymore left the kitchen.

xxxxxxxxxx

Claymore was back about fifteen minutes later.

"Well?" the Captain snapped. Things were not going well, and Claymore was sincerely trying his tolerance level.

"Well what, Captain?"

"What do you think? How are Candy and Jonathan?"

"Oh! Well, let's see. I got them to take their medicine first, because then they could use the soup and ginger ale to drown the taste. They thought that was a good idea."

"It was," Daniel grudgingly admitted.

"My mother used to tell me that," Claymore said, almost to himself. "I used to get sick a lot when I was a kid."

The Captain stopped typing and looked at his 'nephew,' giving him his undivided attention.

"What else?"

"Uhm, they're both behaving," Claymore said, pouring a mug of the now-cooling broth for himself and putting on a piece of toast. "Jonathan is still coughing, and so is Candy, but Candy says her stomach isn't 'bouncy' anymore." The toast popped up and Claymore reached for the butter on the counter, spreading it out to the crusts of the bread.

"What else?" the Captain asked. "You were gone quite a while."

"Well, I thought it would be better if I stayed while they ate," Claymore explained. "You know, so I only had to make one trip up and down stairs. I TOLD Mrs. Muir the day she moved in that those stairs were unbearable, and I was right! My poor legs!"

"Never mind 'your poor legs'," the Captain said sharply. "The exercise is good for you. And?"

"I was just making an observation, Sir." Claymore continued, eating his toast. "Both the kids are resting. Jonathan is staying in bed, and keeping himself busy. He has the entire naval fleet spread out over it, and I think he is reenacting the Battle of Vera Cruz, or something. Candy was working on a crossword puzzle. She needed a nine-letter word for tightwad."

"And did you say,_ 'Claymore'?_" the Captain scowled, and looked at the page he has just finished, realizing he had missed another of Carolyn's inserts. Blast. He had so much more of an understanding now the hours that she had spent doing the final edits on his Memoirs! He inserted another sheet and began typing again. Slowly.

"That's EIGHT letters, you... spirit, you," Claymore whined. "Actually, the answer was skinflint." The landlord didn't add that Candy had tried to make 'Claymore' work also. "Anyway, while the kids ate, I kind of peeked in on Mrs. Muir, but she was asleep. I didn't want to wake her to eat, but, pardon me, Captain, I did kind of feel her forehead. She still seems really hot. By then the kids had finished, so we played a hand of old maid, then they got tired and said they wanted to go back to sleep, so I came back down here. I'm tired, too!" Going to the counter, Claymore put his dirty cup and saucer in the sink and took a mug from the rack on the wall. He poured himself a cup of coffee and returned to the table, where he sat and crossed his legs, taking a deep swallow of the brew.

The Captain gave him a long cold look.

"And what do you think you are doing?" he asked, his voice an icy calm.

"Um, resting, Captain."

"Resting?" The seaman stopped typing again. "I don't think so. You can't possibly be out of things to do. Martha stays busy all day..."

"Busy? Well, Captain, I have been busy! I got all the dusting done, and dry-mopping, and the vacuuming, or the best I can with that little hand sweeper, and the laundry, I hung it up, too. Not to mention run up and downstairs at least ten times for the kids, kept the coffee hot for you, made lunch..."

Daniel held up his hand. "Very well, you haven't been loafing."

"So does that mean I can go home now?"

"Not on your life, which I would most gladly sacrifice, by the way."

Claymore sighed. "I didn't think so. Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, CAPTAIN, as you have so often pointed out, this is YOUR ship. What are you ordering me to do next? I've already swabbed the decks, did you want me to start ironing?"

The seaman shuddered.

"I think not. It's not that I don't trust you, it's just that I... well, I DON'T trust you, and I don't think I should take a chance endangering the family's wardrobes, just yet." He looked thoughtful. "Have you scrubbed the downstairs water-closet yet?"

"Huh?"

"Privy. Head. Facilities. Bathroom, blast it."

"Oh! Scrubbed and polished, Sir!"

Daniel tapped his pencil on the desk, thoughtfully.

"Well, since you are here, there's a honey — no, a Landlord-do list..." He would not call that miserly moocher honey, even by mere implication. He gestured. "It's on the refrigerator, there."

Slowly, Claymore took the list and started reading down it. "Fix the running toilet in Martha's bathroom... I noticed that when I was in there..."

"Did you fix it?" The Captain demanded.

"Uh, no..." he continued. "Fix the latch on the front gate. Kitchen sink draining slowly. Side trellis is falling down..." He paused. "Uhm, isn't there anything I could go do in town? Don't the kids and Mrs. Muir need more medicine, or something?" His voice was taking on a desperate tone. "Maybe if I went to SEE the doctor I could..."

"Belay those thoughts, Claymore." Daniel shook his head, thinking silently to himself that there was no way in the seven seas he would let the bumbling boob jump ship. "You brought plenty of supplies, and you are not leaving here until the children and Mrs. Muir are well. Now, get moving. The tools you need are probably on the laundry porch. And Claymore, remember, they are trying to rest, so be quiet."

xxxxxxxxxx

A half-hour later, pounding could be heard from the side of the house.

For a powerless ghost, Daniel could move VERY quickly. Arriving outside where Claymore was working, he yanked the hammer from his hand.

"Cease that noise immediately, or I'll make your birth certificate a worthless document! Claymore! What did I tell you about making noise?"

"How do you expect me to do fix the trellis without hammering? And what is what you are doing, if you aren't making noise? Whispering? I think not!" Claymore hissed back.

The Captain growled, lowering his voice. "No rackets, Claymore! I thought you learned after the vacuum cleaner incident."

Claymore shrugged. "I guess I could go check the laundry again. Something might be dry by now."

"I guess you could. And what about that pipe down in the cellar? You haven't fixed that yet, have you?"

"That wasn't on the list."

"It is now."

"It's dark down in the cellar, and it's creepy down there. I hate it. There might be spoo..."

"Don't say it, Claymore, you were down there for the laundry, and there is a light. You have nothing to be afraid of."

"I'm in a haunted house. I always have something to be afraid of."

You don't live in it, you nincompoop! Furthermore, I'm the one haunting it, and I am giving you permission... no, ordering you to go down there, unless you really do want something to be afraid of! Now you have approximately ten seconds to get downstairs before I..."

"Okay, Okay! I'm going, I'm going!"

The lanky man was off like a shot.

xxxxxxxxxx

When the Captain was sure that Claymore really was working and in no immediate danger of provoking further chaos, he settled down to work on Carolyn's story again. He'd barely gotten started, however, when he heard someone stumble into the kitchen. Prepared to blast his 'nephew.' he turned, only to bite back his curses upon seeing Candy Muir in the doorway — barefoot, with her blanket.

"Candy?" he paused and looked at the little girl. "My dear girl, whatever are you doing out of bed? Did you need something?"

"No, not really, I..." She stopped.

"What is it child?" he continued kindly. "What can I do to help?"

"Nothing. I... I'm just sick of being... sick, and I'm bored," Candy replied, and gave a little sniffle.

"And Jonathan is…?"

"Jonathan's asleep." Silently, she put two straight chairs front to front and stretched out between them, tucking her legs under her and her blanket over her.

"Candy, dear. There isn't a good place for you out here to cuddle up, and I'm very busy..."

"I won't bother you. And I'd rather be where there are people..."

"I'm not a..."

"Yes you are, too," she insisted. "I think you are, and even if you weren't, you're more fun than Claymore. But you are, and I want to be with you."

He smiled. "Thank-you, Candy, but that's not difficult. Being more interesting than Claymore, I mean. My dear, is there something else? Some other reason you want to stay here in this cold kitchen than in your warm bed?"

"Yeah... Captain, I'm real worried about Mom. But you always know when something is bothering her — I mean something really bad. As long as I know you are here, I know she will be okay. That's why I want to stay with you. So, please, can I stay?"

His heart softened. "Well, maybe for a little while. A half an hour. Then right back to bed." Going to the refrigerator, he poured out a fresh glass of ginger ale and handed it to her. "There. You're all settled. Are you sure you are warm enough? Your feet..."

"I have my blanket all wrapped up around me, including my feet." Candy gestured.

"Very well." The seaman tugged the blanket a little further up toward Candy's chin. "I need to get to get back to work now."

There was silence in the kitchen for ten minutes, punctuated only by the sounds of the clink of the ice in Candy's glass, the typewriter keys, and occasional muffled exclamations made by the Captain as he made another typo.

"Boy, Mom types a lot faster than you," Candy remarked.

"Well, she's been working at it longer..." Daniel answered, trying not to sound defensive.

"Aren't you done yet?" Candy asked. "You've been working on it a long time, and Mom said she had a deadline..."

"I know, Candy."

"Who gets to double check everything when you are done?" The wheels were turning in Candy's head. "You know, for mistakes. I might be able to..."

"Thank you, Candy, but no, I don't think so. Your mother will, if she is well enough, Or I will have to rely on —"

"Claymore?"

"My own good judgement. And I imagine the magazine will give it a once-over, too."

"Mom wants me to learn how to type," Candy said brightly.

"A worthwhile endeavor, I am sure... BLAST." Another mistake.

"Jonathan thinks typing is just for girls." Candy watched as the seaman applied the eraser to the paper.

"He is most assuredly wrong." The Captain answered, blowing eraser crumbs away. "I will tell him that at the next opportunity."

"Did you learn how to type in school?" Candy asked, as Daniel started again.

"No Candy, they didn't have typewriters when I was alive."

"Then you learned after you died? That's interesting."

"Yes."

"So, did Mom teach you?"

"No, Candy."

"Claymore?"

"No. Blast..." He had made another mistake. "No, dear. I taught myself."

"Oh. Did you teach yourself to play the piano, too?"

"No. My Aunt Violet taught me when I was a boy." Carefully, he corrected his mistake.

"Did you look like Jonathan when you were a kid?"

"No. I looked like me. Jonathan looks like... Jonathan."

"Oh. That's right. Mom said something like that about the baby, Christmas before last. I think most babies are cute, though."

"I do too, Candy. I've often wondered how 'Slugger' is doing."

"I don't know how to type yet," Candy went on. "I still don't understand why the letters just don't go: a-b-c-d-e-f-g, do you, Captain?"

"No, I don't, Candy..." He looked at the clock. "My dear, it's been almost a half an hour. Time for you to go back to bed."

"But, Captain..." Candy didn't look happy.

"No 'buts'."

"You sound like Mom," she sighed.

"I am trying to sound like a parent. You should be in bed."

"I'm not sleepy."

"If you curl up in bed, you will be."

"No I won't."

He sighed. _Well, what was being a bit more behind?_ "What if I tell you another story?"

"Okay. If you sing to me, too."

"Candy, I'm not a singer." He smiled. "Now, Sean O'Casey, my first mate... HE was a singer."

"Yes, you are, too."

"No, I'm not. You're the one who got to sing in front of the whole town, or have you forgotten that?"

"Not the same." Candy shook her head. "I got to sing songs with the Partridges, and I was a part of the group, but your voice... it makes me feel warm and cozy inside. Just like walking into Gull Cottage. You have a great voice. Doesn't matter if you are talking or singing."

Daniel looked pleased, and he remembered Carolyn's earlier comment about him singing to Candy if she asked. "All right, Candy. If I don't wake Jonathan up, I'll sing to you."

"You won't. He can sleep through anything, and even if he did wake up, he'd like it, too."

"Sleep through anything! That's what he said about you the night the Partridges landed."

"That's only because I slept with my door closed," she pouted. "I don't do that any more, Captain."

"Afraid you'll miss something?"

"Yeah, and I never want to bump into Keith Partridge in the kitchen by surprise again. I was so embarrassed! If go to bed now, will you sing to me?"

"Very well."

"Cool." She stood and grabbed the seaman's hand. "I was about ready for bed, anyway."

"Why you little dickens!" he smiled. "You outfoxed me, you did."

The two headed for the stairs.

xxxxxxxxxx

Daniel was on his way downstairs after singing the children to sleep when he heard soft moaning, then cries coming from the Captain's cabin. Stepping inside the room quickly, he found Carolyn thrashing, sweating and buried in the blankets he had piled on the bed earlier. As Claymore had pointed out after his trip to the nursery, she was devilishly hot, but whether it was from the flu, or all the blankets, he couldn't ascertain.

"Carolyn..." he said gently, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Carolyn, love, it's all right..." Suddenly, she threw his hand away and sat straight up in bed, her eyes wide open, but not seeing him.

"Robert! I know about Cheryl! How could you DO this to us? To the children? No, I won't stay here! I'm — I'm filing for divorce! It's not right!"

"Carolyn?" The seaman reached out, taking his lady's hand. "Carolyn, love, Robert is gone, dead and gone..."

She still wasn't acknowledging his voice, but a moment later her head was resting on the Captain's broad shoulder. "Robert, I just want you to be faithful, is that such a hard thing? I've never done anything to..." She fell back against the pillow again, crying.

"Captain, I..." Claymore was at the cabin door, having heard the woman's cries.

The Captain signaled him back. "She's delirious, Claymore." He looked concerned. "Have her shouts awakened the children? They don't need to see this."

Claymore shook his head. "No... they're asleep, and I... I closed their door. They can't hear anything."

The seaman looked relieved. "Now you're thinking. Bring me a wet cloth, quickly, and then go back and keep watch at the nursery door."

Carolyn sat up again, still not seeing Daniel.

"Shot? No... it can't be... I just wanted him to stop seeing Cheryl, not die... what am I going to do?" Carolyn laid her head back on the seaman's shoulder and she started to quiver and tremble, the tears still running down her face.

He held her close, stroking her sweat-dampened hair, and then suddenly she went almost limp in his arms. Pulling away, he could see her luminous green eyes turn an even darker jade, and she clasped his hands tightly and leaned toward him.

"Daniel, you'd never leave me again, would you?" she asked, dazed. "I... I'm sorry about your tree... It really was dangerous. I was scared!"

"I know, love," he soothed. I saw the window..."

"But I was more frightened when you left... the house was so empty without you here, I... Robert loved ordering me around, and then you did..." Her tears fell again, and she was crying as if her heart would break. "I'm so sorry, and I never told you, I... Daniel, please don't leave me. I dreamed... I dreamed you were a dream... oh, I couldn't touch you... Don't leave me!"

"Shh, love!" Sitting there on the side of the bed, he held her tightly and rocked her as if she were a child. Claymore came in at that moment, handed his uncle the wet rag, turned on his heel and left without a word, sensing he definitely wasn't needed.

"Daniel..." she hiccoughed into his shoulder. "You were gone... You came back. Oh, please don't leave me again..."

"Shh..." He rocked her silently and waited for her to calm down a touch, and then mopped her sweaty, tear streaked face with the wet towel. "Oh, darling, I'll not be going anywhere without you. On heaven, and earth and all points in between, I am with you. I'll always be here. When you wake up in the middle of the night, alone, I'll be here. Whenever you're sick, I'll be here. When you are frightened, I'll be here, and when you are lonely, I'll be here for you. You are my sun, my moon, my stars and my reason for being — you're my soul mate, and it's because of our love that we can finally be together... don't you know that? My dear, I'll never leave you. You're my... life. You'll always have me, Carolyn. You'll always have me."

He felt, more than saw her head nod, and they sat there for the next hour, he rocking her and stroking her hair, she whispering words only he could understand. Finally Carolyn's sobs faded away. Feeling her forehead gently, as if with a sick, sleeping child, Daniel finally lowered her head back down into the freshly-turned pillow, covered her gently with a light blanket, and softly tiptoed out of the room.

xxxxxxxxxx

"How is she?" Claymore asked, as Daniel entered the kitchen. He could have sworn there were bags under the spirit's eyes.

"Her fever has broken," Daniel answered. "She seems to be on the mend, but I want to watch her closely for the next hour or so. Nancy Ferguson warned me this sort of thing could happen, but I never thought about it being this serious! There were a few moments there where I really don't think she knew who I was."

Claymore nodded. "Well, the kids are asleep. I don't think they heard a thing."

"Thank-you for making SURE they didn't," Daniel answered, wondering if Claymore had heard any of the more private things he had told Carolyn.

"You're welcome, Captain," Claymore answered. "I stood outside their door for about twenty minutes after I left your cabin, just in case, but really, all I could hear was... well... crying. No words, really."

Daniel raised his eyebrows.

"REALLY," Claymore insisted. "Sometimes I get it right..." he shrugged again "Besides, the door to your cabin was closed. Now if you will excuse me..." He headed for the living room without further comment, and the seaman returned to the kitchen table, where the story still awaited him.

xxxxxxxxxx

Tranquility at Gull Cottage was short lived, however. An hour later, after Daniel had checked on Carolyn twice, and was just getting back into a rhythm on the story, a horrendous clatter and thump came from the downstairs bathroom, followed quickly by a shriek from Claymore.

Once more trying to 'pop,' and failing, Daniel stopped typing and made a run for the downstairs bathroom, only to find Claymore trying frantically to shove the fallen shower curtain back into place — an impossible task, as it was now bent in a 'U' shape. Wet clothes, some still on hangers, were all over the floor.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE SEVEN SEAS ARE YOU DOING?" Daniel bellowed, making Claymore cringe, and Scruffy, who had been in the kitchen, quietly keeping the seaman company, bark madly.

"Shhhhh!" he signaled frantically. "People are sleeping! You wouldn't want them to — "

Daniel sighed. "Hush Scruffy, or you go out on the laundry porch."

The little dog was instantly quiet.

"Well?" The seaman's voice was softer, but much more menacing, Claymore thought.

"Well?" he hedged. "Uhm, well, I couldn't fix the dryer. The heating element is shot, so..."

"So?" Daniel seethed.

"So, well, I figured rather than hanging anything else downstairs, and making the extra trip, why not use the shower rod in Martha's bathroom? It seemed like a natural... it's nice and warm in there and..."

"And?" The spirit's voice was raising in volume again.

"Well, I guess I was wrong?"

Daniel surveyed the mess on the floor.

"Wrong doesn't begin to cover it, Claymore. How many times has Mrs. Muir called you to have the dryer fixed?"

"Well, more than once, but..."

"Claymore, it's your own fault the dryer isn't working, and it was your second-hand dryer to begin with! Carolyn has had it repaired twice — at her expense!"

"Well, I know, but when she called me, I was busy, and nobody was sick then, anyway..."

"They are now, and so is the dryer! It's terminal! Which is what you are going to be unless you..." He broke off, almost speechless.

"What do you want me to do?" Claymore cowered.

"I want you to do SOMETHING before I..."

Claymore scooted out of the bathroom in record time. "Yessir! Right away, sir!"

When Daniel came back into the kitchen, Claymore was hanging up the phone.

"Abner doesn't have any used dryers, Captain."

Sitting down at the kitchen table to work, Captain Gregg glared at his 'nephew.'

"Call Sears and buy one, you cheapskate."

"Sears? A NEW dryer, Captain?"

"Yes, Claymore." The tone in his voice did not invite further argument.

"But... but they're all the way up in Keystone... do you know what the delivery charge will be?"

"I don't care if they are in Texas, Claymore. Order one over the phone. GET A DRYER!"

Claymore reached for the telephone receiver.

Hanging up fifteen minutes later, Claymore turned back to the spirit, who was deep into the story.

"The dryer is ordered, Captain. I... I put it on my credit card. It will be delivered tomorrow. Can I go home now?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because the dryer isn't here, the wet clothes are still all over the bathroom, and you have been shanghaied for the duration, that's why! Now get busy!"

xxxxxxxxxx

A half-hour later, Claymore was back in the kitchen — the laundry now hung in the cellar, and carefully, he was washing the dirty dishes from lunch, complaining and fretting as he did so. Ruefully, Claymore held a red hand out in front of him.

"...I can't believe this is all I get for being a good Samaritan!" he moaned. "Three appointments I had today for big business deals, not to mention how much notary and JP business has passed me by! And what do I have to show for it? Housemaid's knee and dishpan hands! I haven't ached this bad since the Centennial! My poor muscles!"

"I didn't know you had any muscles," was the Captain's only comment.

"Very funny."

"Stop complaining and put away the dishes," Daniel snapped. "You deserve everything that has been dealt to you for your past utter neglect of Gull Cottage! I'll have you know being hunched over a typewriter is no joy, either. My aching back! Good Lord, am I tired! I understand now how Carolyn can inhale coffee the way she does... especially when she is on a deadline!"

"You haven't been bending and stretching and climbing stairs forty times a day..." Claymore said dourly.

Daniel gave him a frigid look. "Claymore, will you PLEASE stop your petty complaints long enough to get me a cup of coffee? AND DON'T bollix it up!" He was almost, but not quite shouting again.

Deciding not to argue that the spirit was as almost as close to the coffeepot as he was, Claymore lifted the pot from the stove and brought it to the table, setting it down on a sloppy pile of discarded pages.

"Claymore, I asked you for a CUP of coffee, not the whole blasted pot!"

"Well," he answered, "I'm so busy running hither, thither and yon HELPING YOU, I thought it would be more... more efficient to just bring you the whole thing. Then you can pour more as you need — "

The Captain cut him off. "Cold coffee is not the least bit helpful."

"I drink it that way all the time, Captain," Claymore argued. "It's cheaper than leaving the pot on all day." He leaned over the Captain's shoulder. "Hey, can I see what you're doing?"

_"Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas..."_ Daniel muttered. "Yes you MAY..." He gazed around at the various piles of scattered papers. "Now then... where's that section with Sarah and her future mother-in-law..."

Claymore leaned over the table. "Here it is!" he cried, and pointed, pleased to be of service. He reached for the pages, knocking over the whole coffee pot, spilling the contents over every piece of paper on the table. He watched in horror as the coffee started hitting the floor.

It was one of those time — and heart stopping-moments.

The seaman's face went purple with impotent rage. "_Haon, dó, trí, ceathair, cúig... _**CLAYMORE!" **he exploded, and grabbed the hapless landlord by the lapels, and started to shake him like a rag doll. "You clay-brained clod! You... you lunk-headed launderer! You inferior imposter, you! How could you do it? You clumsy, incompetent, pitiful excuse for taking up breathing space! You twangy, incompetent, tight-fisted idiot! Look what you've done!"

"Ooohhhh!…" Claymore turned as white as a sheet and looked like he would faint any second. "Oh, please, don't kill me Captain… I... I'll do anything, please, don't hurt me..." His knees started to buckle.

_Hurt him... _the cloud covering the Captain's brain began to clear and slowly he released his hold on the pitiable man before him, and took a deep breath. "Hurt you..." Daniel gave the man before him a defeated look. "I... I'm not going to hurt you, Claymore. I... I don't think I have the strength left in me."

"Huh," Claymore sniffed, almost in tears. "That's what you say now, but you'll change your mind again. You keep saying you will be nice to me, but you never are. What about me, Captain? I came out here to help — see what I could do, and you TOLD me, not ASKED me to stay, and I stayed. I didn't have to, you know. But whether you know it or not, I care about this family just as much as you do, and no, it's not just for the rent, either."

Daniel stared at Claymore. Blast it, the idiot had a point.

"Now you better stop yelling, right now," Claymore continued. "Everyone can hear and see you, remember? You'll wake the kids, and Mrs. Muir and you know they need their rest. Not to mention me. I've had it up..."

"Claymore..."

"What? Are you going to start insulting me again, Captain?"

"No."

"No?"

"No, I'm not. Claymore, I... I believe I spoke in haste..."

"You can say that, again..." said Claymore, scuttling over to the laundry porch where he grabbed the mop and began swabbing the deck without being asked. "Boy-oh-Boy!"

"Claymore, it's just that I... I'm worn out. I'm still very troubled about Carolyn, the children, getting this story done... and I still don't know why I am powerless... it's all made me... edgy..." Daniel grabbed a towel and began blotting the wet pages, being careful not to tear them.

"Edgy! That's an understatement!" Claymore huffed, leaning the mop against the counter, he grabbed a towel, and joined his 'uncle.'

And a few minutes, Daniel stopped to survey the damage. A resigned look came to his face. Claymore continued to blot every paper on the table within reach.

"Stop, please," the spirit said quietly. "Go finish the dishes, or something, Claymore. Leave this... mess, be."

"What about the pages?" Claymore asked in surprise. "The rest of the notes? Can you finish the story?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Daniel shrugged. "I was finally starting to get somewhere, but now..." He lifted a soggy page, carefully. "I only have half a story. Thank-goodness the finished pages weren't damaged." He nodded toward the kitchen island, where the clean-typed pages sat in a folder. "Carolyn still is incapable of finishing the story. I suppose I'll just have to call _Feminine View _and tell them there is going to be a delay and hope for the best."

"But, you'd really rather not, right Captain?" Claymore frowned. "It's really that important that she isn't late getting her story in?"

"It really is, Claymore. The magazine has to go to press on time, with or without Carolyn's story, but I'm not sure we have a choice. This isn't good... she spent the advance they paid her for the story getting YOUR furnace fixed, you know."

Claymore looked abashed, then thoughtful. "I have an idea, If you want to hear it, uncle."

"Don't call me 'uncle...' What is it?"

"You promise you won't call it stupid, or, or call me a lunkhead? It... it just occurred to me..."

"I promise, Claymore. At this point, I'll listen to anything, regardless HOW stupid... wild it might be. I'm fresh out of ideas."

"You PROMISE you won't laugh? Cross your heart? Hope to di –? Er- right... I... I'm sorry, Captain, I mean... Well if you still have a heart... well, I mean I know you have a heart, emotion-wise, or you would have killed me a few minutes ago, but..."

"Stop dithering, Claymore," the seaman scowled. "Just spit it out."

"Well, I was thinking that... no... you'll probably laugh at me... no... you'll hate it..."

"Claymore," Daniel sighed. The man still looked afraid of him, and well, he had reason. "I haven't lost my temper like that in a long time. It's just that... Claymore, I promise I won't laugh at you. Now, what is it?"

"Promise? Well..." Claymore plunged ahead. "I was thinking. When I was down hanging up the last load of laundry, I found a bunch of new cord rope for clotheslines. I... I guess Mrs. Muir was planning on replacing the outside ones, or the ones in the cellar, but she hasn't had a chance to yet, and..."

"... And?" Daniel frowned, wondering what point the man was trying to make.

"...And, well I was thinking, why don't we hang the pages up to dry? Like the laundry I have been doing all day?"

"Hang them, Claymore?"

"Sure! It would be easy, Captain. All we'd have to do is string the lines... you know, tie them from the pillars on the verandah, then..." he reached for a typewritten sheet by a dry edge and carefully separated it from the others in the soggy pile. "Drape it over the lines," he continued, fitting his words to his action, placing the wet sheet over his arm. "They'd be dry in no time, and I think the coffee has stained light enough that you could still read the drafts. It's just paper, after all — and should dry faster than clothes, and it's stopped raining, or hadn't you noticed?"

The seaman gazed at him thoughtfully, and then out the window. The rain had indeed stopped, and... maybe the clumsy clodhopper had a good idea, at that.

Claymore looked at his 'uncle.' "So what do you think, Captain? Can we give it a try? I really want to do something to, to fix things — again, I mean. I won't even try to tie the knots in the lines. You can do that, just so I don't mess it up. You're the sail... SEAMAN," he amended quickly.

"You know, Claymore..." Daniel patted Claymore on the back. "...I think you're onto something."

"I... I AM?" The other man answered, "Really?"

"Of course you are." Daniel shook his head in wonder at the words coming out of his mouth. "Let's cast off."

xxxxxxxxxx

It didn't take long to get the clotheslines strung, and at a glance, Daniel and Claymore both could tell they would have enough in the way of lines to hang the rest of the rough draft out to dry.

"We need to hurry," Daniel stated. "They have to be hung and dried and back down again before twilight, and that will be in about an hour and a half, I think."

"Sounds about right," Claymore shrugged, and the two went to work, slowly and carefully, drawing another deep breath every time they managed to separate a page without tearing it. The men had been working in silence for around ten minutes when finally Claymore spoke, without even looking at his 'uncle.'

"Captain, why do you hate me?"

_Hate? Strong word, that. _"Claymore, I don't hate you. I really don't. I just don't always LIKE you." _That was ungracious, Daniel. _"But there are times I do, also," he added, quickly.

"Now you're just trying to get on my good side again," Claymore pouted. "You just need me at the moment, I'm the only help you have."

"That's not — "

"Yes it is, too. And when everyone is well, and Martha is home, things will be just the way they always were… you and everyone else avoiding me at all costs."

The seaman sighed. Dolt or not, the man had a point. "Claymore, I don't hate you. Do you realize if it weren't for you, that the first two years the Muirs lived here I never could have even begun to tell Carolyn what I felt for her? Using you to waltz with her — hold her hand — "

"And boy, did that feel icky, having you in my head! But it just proves my argument. I'm handy to have around to do all the things you can't do... couldn't, I mean."

The spirit considered. "Claymore, as much as it pains me to say it You DO have a fair argument. And I never did thank you for not fighting me when I... used your body, so I am thanking you now."

"No you didn't, and you're welcome. And let's not forget when you used me to convince the judge to veto the county about the power lines, and when you abused me just to get your silver service back."

"You deserved the latter. You never should have given it away."

"I keep telling you, I found it in my cellar. I didn't take it. It must have been my father."

"Whatever. You are his son. You are responsible."

"How come I never get to be responsible for anything good, or fun? You just call me to fetch and carry and do things in town that you can't do because you are stuck here."

"Claymore, I can't help that. Besides, you carry the Gregg name. That should be enough."

"Carrying it and living up to it are two different things, Uncle."

"Hmm?"

"How would you like to live up to the legend of YOU? You've had a century to practice being you — I haven't. Being DEAD couldn't even stop you."

"And you couldn't be me if you lived a hundred years." He hung another sheet. "You know, I hadn't thought of it in quite that way before. No one can live up to being the man I was — am."

"Well, think about it," Claymore retorted. "It's impossible, and I have YOU here to remind me of it. Constantly. Be you alive or be you dead, UNCLE, it is no picnic, believe me."

"Don't call me..." he stopped, turned around, and faced Claymore. "Perhaps you are right. It can't be easy, trying to live up to a legend, like me."

"You said it." Pausing, Claymore went back and touched the first pages they had hung up to dry. In spite of the soft breeze, they were still damp. "Can you use your powers to speed it up a little, Captain?" Claymore asked.

"If I had my powers, I'd..."

"Oh, yeah, right. You'd 'poof' and I'd be locked in the cellar and the pages would be dry, and Mrs Muir and the kids would be well and you'd be sitting back with your feet up, smoking a cigar," said Claymore, a sour look on his face.

"I can't do any of that, but I like the imagery," Daniel grinned. " Still, all in all, Clay, you are improving."

"Really, Captain?" Claymore looked surprised, then pleased. "Thank you, I... WHAT did you call me?"

"Stop panicking, you nit. I didn't call you any names." Daniel hung the last sheet carefully, and then leaned against the railing.

"Yes you did," the other man insisted.

"No I didn't — What did I call you?"

"Clay," said Claymore.

"Clay? Oh, yes, I suppose I did. Hmm. Well, somehow the shortened version of your name has a — more manly sound to it. And Claymore, you have been behaving much more the real man in the last year or so. Maybe even a bit before."

"Why?" Claymore asked, "Because I could do something like coach the Oysters? Because I brought supplies today without your yelling at me? Because I walked two miles to Gull Cottage after that blizzard at Christmas? Because I'm helping you now instead of panicking like I did when Mrs. Muir got sick last time? Because I..."

The seaman nodded. "Yes, those, among other things you have done, almost make me feel like you have grown a backbone after all. The last time Carolyn was good and sick, it seemed to me that the only thing you cared about was losing a good tenant — well, that and your strange notion that I wanted her to 'join me on the other side,' or some such rubbish."

"Okay, well, yeah, I really thought you did, there for a minute, but Captain, anyone can jump to a conclusion or two. Besides, I WAS right, you do love her..."

"If you would stop trying to figure out what I am going to say or do before I say or do it, it would help, Claymore," the seaman interrupted him.

"I think I like, 'Clay'." The lanky man leaned against the railing himself, away from arm's reach of Daniel Gregg.

"Clay, then. But there are other things, too. You do have your good side, you know."

"Oh, come on. You're just saying that. You need my help, and..."

"Blast it, NO man calls me a liar, Claymore! When I say you have improved. I mean just that. You have improved. No — there are times I realize you are actually a better man than you were."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I had great hopes for you the day you came barreling out to Gull Cottage to tell me off when I gave away your furniture... until you almost fainted, that is. Pretending to be me... on two different occasions, when I know the spirit gum you use to put the beard on gives you a rash. Buying the cigars and roses for Carolyn's parents, and the pearls I gave Carolyn, and giving them to her, no strings attached. Yes. Snow-shoeing out to Gull Cottage with medicine for Tracy Partridge after the blizzard, and you never did ask Shirley to reimburse you for the medicine, either. There was a time you would have handed her the bill before you gave her the medicine."

Claymore flushed. "I guess I have been a regular Albert Schweitzer, haven't I?" He swaggered a bit.

"I wouldn't go THAT far..." the Captain growled. I was ready to do far worse to you than I did when you tried to take advantage of Algae... setting him up for your personal moneymaker! "And what about Madame Tibaldi? Hiring her to exorcize me so you could tear down Gull Cottage — and force Carolyn and her children and Martha into some cramped apartment in town?" "But," he shrugged. "All in all, you are improving. Too bad it took you so far along in your life to get to this point."

"Well, fine," Claymore sniffed. "It took you long enough to decide I can be as much of a Gregg as anyone."

"I still debate THAT!" the seaman added sternly. "But as you carry the Gregg name, you are responsible… BUT... you still have a long way to go, and don't you forget it! I am going to KEEP riding you, and make you live up to the ancestry you have claimed, in spite of yourself. But I am only doing it because... I think you are worth salvaging.

"Does that mean you like me? You really like me?"

"I like you..." Daniel sighed, and gave his 'nephew' a forced smile. "And I promise that — "

"You'll be nicer to me?" Claymore smiled back, timidly.

"No — more patient."

"I can live with that," Claymore nodded. "You promise?"

"Claymore, I am a man of my word, If I promise to be... nicer to you, I will... at least until it's time NOT to be nice."

"Well, THAT'S a double negative of a promise, if I ever heard one."

"Take it for what it's worth, Claymore."

Claymore reached over from where he was leaning against the banister and touched one of the hanging sheets of paper. "Captain?"

"What? Don't ask me to hug you."

"Uhm, no... I think the first pages we hung up are practically dry. I believe maybe five more minutes might just do it."

Daniel touched another page. "So they are!" He looked pleased. "You did have a good idea, Claymore."

Claymore Gregg turned as red as a beet. Praise from Daniel Gregg! It was a red letter day, indeed.

xxxxxxxxxx

Even after the pages dried, it took another hour to collate them so Daniel could get started on the writing process. Just as Claymore had put on a new pot of coffee so they could try to get back in the groove of it, they looked up to see the Jonathan in the doorway.

Daniel started. "Jonathan!" Standing, he came over to the boy and knelt in front of him. "Lad, what are you doing out of bed? Are you feeling worse? Is Candy sick again? Your mother, is she..."

The boy shook his head. "Uhm, no Captain. Mom's asleep, I think. But Candy and me... I, are awake and we were wondering..."

"Jonathan, I will play with you later, but we had a mishap here and I really need to get this story finished..." He stopped, wondering if by any chance he could be finished by midnight.

"I know, Captain," the boy paused. "Uhm, Candy and I were just wondering if..."

"Yes, lad?"

"Well, we're tired of being in bed, and we're hungry."

Daniel jerked a thumb toward the stove. "Can you see to that, Claymore?" He turned back to Jonathan. "More broth and toast will be up shortly, lad."

Jonathan made a face. "Think we could have something besides chicken broth and toast, Captain? We're really starved."

Claymore and Daniel looked at each other, thrilled, then the Captain smiled at the boy. "How about an omelette, with some nice vegetables in it? Would you feel up to that?"

Jonathan perked up, not even making a face at the word 'vegetables.' "That would be great, Captain."

"Great, indeed, Jonathan." The seaman smiled again. "Well, shoo. Get back in bed and we'll bring your dinner momentarily."

"Aww!" Jonathan moaned. "I've been in bed forever! Do I have to?"

"Yes," Claymore put in his two cents. "But if you're good, maybe I can play Monopoly with you later?" He looked at the Captain. "If it's okay with you, of course."

"We'll see," the spirit nodded. "But only if I can't think of anything else that needs doing."

"Okay," Jonathan agreed, and turned to go, and they heard his calls to his sister as he ascended the back stairs. "Hey! Candy! The Captain says we can have real food!"

xxxxxxxxxx

The spirit looked up from his typing. It was still going slowly, but maybe he still had a chance. At the least the kids and Carolyn seemed better. Candy and Jonathan had eaten a good dinner, considering, and Carolyn had asked for a bit to eat also — the request delighting both Claymore and the Captain.

"There. Now all I have to do is get this little bit of dishes washed," said Claymore, coming back into the kitchen, where the Captain was typing away.

Stopping, and staring, not at Claymore, but at the copy in front of him, Daniel's eyebrows raised. "You were gone a bit longer than I thought you'd be," he said, and scowled at the paper before him.

"I read the kids a story," the other man answered.

"Oh. Well, that's all right, then."

"They said I had a nice voice." Claymore looked happy. "Not as good as yours, but nice. I take that as a compliment."

"I'm glad they were pleased."

Claymore regarded his 'uncle.' "Still having trouble reading through the coffee stains?"

"No..." Daniel sighed. "Just Carolyn's handwriting."

"I didn't think it was that bad — not from what I saw, anyway," Claymore commented. "As notary, I've seen a lot worse."

Daniel tugged on his ear thoughtfully. "You know, Claymore, I do believe you've given me an idea..."

"I have?" The other man looked surprised. "What did I do?"

"I was thinking... What if you read Carolyn's copy to me? You're right. You didn't seem to have too much trouble with her handwriting earlier. Maybe if you read it out loud to me, it will make more sense."

"Uhm, well, I..." Claymore paused. "I was right about something? Me? Read the story to you, while you type?"

"Why not?" Daniel continued. "When I was dictating my Memoirs to Carolyn, I dictated, she typed, fixed the structuring... that went fairly smoothly. We could do the same thing here. The only difference would be that the structuring, for the most part is done. And you and I could work on the handwritten parts as they come up."

"What about all the blasted inserts?" Claymore asked.

The Captain grinned at Claymore's casual use of the word, 'blasted.' "We'll cross those as we come to them." He gave Claymore a steady look. "What do you say, Clay? Should we give it a try?"

Claymore nodded. "Just let me run up and tell the kids that they are on their own as far as Monopoly goes."

"I'm sure they'll be relieved to hear that," Daniel grinned.

"Naturally," Claymore preened. "I always win."

xxxxxxxxxx

Three hours later, at eight in the evening, the story was finished. The dinner dishes had been washed, that going smoothly, except for Claymore's small mishap while trying clean the cast iron skillet, the accident resulting in another floor mopping.

"Thanks for not getting mad, Captain," Claymore said, as he rolled the bucket and mop into the pantry and threw the wet dishtowel over the faucet handle. "Finished, at last! I'm so glad everything has turned out all right! If we can get Mrs. Muir's story mailed by tomorrow morning, she'll make her deadline."

"All in all, I think we have performed admirably," the Captain agreed. "Rather rough seas there for a while, but in the end, we worked together for the common cause... and succeeded."

"That, I suppose, depends on how you look at things..." came a voice.

The men turned and beheld Martha Grant standing in the doorway.

"Martha! You're home!" They both looked delighted.

"Just in time, I see..." The housekeeper surveyed her domain. Dropping her purse on the table, she picked up the dirty washcloth from the faucet, the damp dishtowel draped over the chair, and sniffed at the overflowing wastebasket near the laundry porch. "What on EARTH has been going on here, and what have you done to my kitchen? I ran into Frank Kensington at the drugstore, before I caught a cab up here, Claymore," she went on. "Everyone's sick? Mrs. Muir? Candy and Jonathan? They are in bed, aren't they? Resting?"

"Actually, I think the kids are playing Monopoly, at the moment," Daniel offered.

"They are almost better..." Claymore added, helpfully.

"They can be "almost better" in bed. If they didn't go to school today, that's where they belong," Martha said, firmly. "Preferably asleep. They know better... And how long has it been since you checked on Mrs. Muir?"

"Only half an hour ago, Martha," said Daniel. "Her fever is gone, she's eaten and she is resting comfortably."

"Hrumph. I'll be the judge of that!" She shook her head, then opened the refrigerator. "Who didn't cover the soup before they put it away? And what is this spilled milk in the bottom, here?" She sighed. "I can't believe this... my kitchen... I can't WAIT to see what you've done to the rest of the place!"

The two men, ghost and human, looked at each other and shrugged.

"I guess we could stand to learn a few things..." said Daniel.

"Lot of things..." Claymore added. "I didn't spill that milk, Martha. It must have been Spooky, here."

Daniel glared at the man. "Aye, Martha, I spilled the milk... I forgot about it. Claymore, don't call me Spooky!"

"That's 'Clay', to you," said Claymore.

"Hrumph," Martha said again. Not even bothering to don an apron, she reached for a rag.

"I think I owe Carolyn a home cooked dinner, at least..." Daniel said thoughtfully. "For all those remarks I made about how much simpler things were in my day. They couldn't possibly been simple then, because they most assuredly aren't simple now!"

"Better make that dinner at Norrie's or something, Captain. I don't think you will be allowed back in Martha's kitchen for a while." Claymore glanced at Martha, who was still mopping the refrigerator. "Or maybe you owe Martha a dinner!"

"A meal in town? And just how will I manage that? You just want me to treat you to one, too," the ghost answered.

"Well..."

"Forget it."

"You two..." Martha ordered. "Stop bickering. We have more important things to do here."

"We HAVE been doing important things here," the Captain argued. "We just finished Carolyn's story, for openers. AND we made deadline."

Martha looked at the seaman. "Marvelous. Then you can get rid of all..." She gestured to the typewriter, papers, and dirty coffee cups on the kitchen table. "...this. Poof it away, Captain."

"I can't...'poof,' Martha," the ghost answered.

"Yeah," Claymore agreed, interrupting. "His poofer is_ phbhttt."_

The housekeeper had the grace to look concerned, for an instant_. "Phbhttt? _Why? Mrs. Muir told me about the Flying Dutchman, after I found out about you. Is he back? When did this happen?"

"Early this morning," Daniel continued. "I have no idea what the matter is, and frankly I haven't had time to find out. I've been busy taking care of the children, Carolyn, getting this story done..." He looked tired. "But at least everyone is feeling better, and the story is finished."

"Well, that's a step in the right direction!" Martha smiled. "And you aren't hurting, or anything?"

"No. Just mortalized for the moment."

The housekeeper looked thoughtful. "Well, you've lasted this long... first things first. Claymore, you need to get Mrs. Muir's story into town..."

Claymore looked relieved. _ESCAPE!_

"No..." She went on, not stopping for breath. "That won't do any good! It's eight o'clock. The post office closed hours ago. I'll take the story into town in the morning. I don't trust you to come back, Claymore, and you ARE going to help me get this place ship-shape."

"You want me to stay overnight?" Claymore blanched. "Haven't I done enough?"

"No." Martha's voice was flat. "Not nearly. And you need to help, too, Captain. Later tomorrow, you can go... wherever it is you need to go and find out what happened to your powers. Until then..." She started rattling off instructions.

The two men gave a feeble protest. "Hey, Admiral! don't yell at us! We're exhausted..."

"I have major dishpan hands..." Claymore started.

"We're both tired," Daniel agreed. "I have been typing for almost twenty-four hours straight, and all this running up and downstairs..." the spirit continued. "Trying to keep the kids happy and medicated without waking Carolyn, doing it POWERLESS, I might add... I'm worn out."

"BOTH of us," Claymore added.

"I didn't know ghosts could GET tired," Martha pointed out.

"Powerless ghosts can," the Captain retorted.

"Well, why didn't you move Mrs. Muir down to my room?" Martha asked. "That would have been all right with me. Then she could have been away from all the noise if the kids had to call, and you wouldn't have had to run upstairs so often."

"Blast!" Daniel and Claymore exclaimed.

"Men..." Martha replied. "Okay, you two. Time to get busy."

"I thought we HAD been busy..." they said together.

"You haven't SEEN busy yet," Martha responded.

Daniel and Claymore looked at each other, knowing that for once they were in complete agreement. They were in for a LONG night.

xxxxxxxxxx

By the next morning, Saturday, the flu, for the children and Carolyn, had become a thing of the past. All fevers, sneezes, coughs and nausea had vanished as quickly as they had come.

Carolyn appeared in a robe and slippers at the breakfast table, insisting she felt wonderful, and was followed shortly by Candy and Jonathan. Claymore, who had spent the night on the roll-away in the alcove, arrived next, and he was followed by the spirit of Gull Cottage, still powerless. The Captain had spent the night prowling the beach in hopes of finding another spirit, somewhere, anywhere, who might be able to explain his loss of powers. When no answers made themselves known, he had spent the early a.m. hours until dawn on the widow's-walk, actually dropping off to sleep for a few hours, much to his surprise.

Martha, maintaining that she needed both the seaman and the landlord's help to put right what they didn't get right in the days before had made the trip into town early to deliver Carolyn's story and pick up a few more supplies, including a new shower rod. Claymore grabbed it from her the moment she returned and went to work, anxious make the repair and be on his way. The children were upstairs, playing checkers, and Daniel and Carolyn were in living room. Carolyn was on the sofa, resting, and Captain was dusting his models.

"Well, all's well that ends well," said Daniel. "Overall I do believe that a crisis was diverted, but now that it has been, and all is ship shape, I still need to contact my spectral fraternity and find out why I don't have any powers. I simply don't understand..." The spirit sneezed suddenly, setting off a volley of thunder.

Carolyn stared at him, open-mouthed. "Daniel, did you do that?" she asked, astonished.

"I thought you didn't have any powers, Captain!" Martha added, coming into the room. "That was you, Captain? There isn't a cloud in the sky. That thunder can't be natural!"

"I… I don't know…" he answered, dazed. "Made it thunder, you mean?"

"Yes, and… you just sneezed!" Carolyn stood and reached up to feel the spirit's forehead. "Daniel! You're hot! You're running a temperature!"

"Nonsense, my dear. It must be YOU who are still running a temperature." He sneezed again, louder than before, suddenly looked rather queasy, and leaned against Carolyn. "I can't possibly be sick…" he protested, suddenly not quite so sure of himself, and as he sniffed his nose and a chill went through him. "I guess I can… it's just that it can't... uhm... kill me," he continued, and turned again to his lady. "My dear, I am very sorry," he started, just before he sneezed again, loud enough to make the nearest windows rattle. "You know, I really DON'T feel good, but I…"

"Spoken like a true man," said Martha. "They won't admit to anything until they are flat on their backs, then it's like no one has ever been as sick as they have. Big babies, the lot of you. Into bed, Captain. Jonathan's room, I suppose..." She glanced at her employer.

Carolyn nodded. "Yes. I'm sure he won't mind letting you borrow it for a day or two."

"Or Candy, sharing her room with Jonathan for a while longer," Martha added.

"I don't believe this." The Captain said, feeling his own forehead. "But, come to think of it, I do remember one time about seventy-five years ago when I... I felt like this, but my powers weren't nearly as well developed..." He wobbled again and reached for Carolyn's shoulder. "And… blast it, I do recall it started with losing the powers I did have then. My dear, I do believe you are right... I... I just... I completely forgot about the last time..."

"You forgot?" Martha asked, astounded, "How could you possibly forget something like that?"

"He forgot when his birthday was," Jonathan piped up from the doorway. "That was you, wasn't it, Captain? The thunder?"

"That's right," Candy agreed. "He did forget before. Bless you, Captain!"

"What about 'Elephants and ghosts never forget'?" Carolyn grinned.

The seaman didn't answer, just sneezed again.

"Well, you've never struck me for being a hypochondriac, Daniel. I think even the Captain should be allowed to forget once in a while, Martha," Carolyn continued. "How long were you sick last time?"

"Only about twenty-four hours, maybe?" The spirit scratched his head. "I'm not sure, I just don't remember, Carolyn..." Daniel looked sheepish. "I guess I was so worried about you and the children that I... well, I forgot all about it. I've just been wrong, that's all. About several things lately, it would seem."

"Make a mark on the wall, he admits to being wrong!" Martha exclaimed. "Mrs. Muir, do you think you and the children had human flu, or did you pick up ghost flu?"

"I think the kids... that is all of us just got the regular flu, Martha," Carolyn flushed. "Daniel has ghost flu."

"You could have caught the flu from me…" Daniel gave her a roguish wink, despite the way he was feeling.

"Hush, Daniel!" Carolyn blushed deeper. "Jonathan's room. Now."

"You're the boss…" the seaman shrugged, following her obediently, and he sneezed again.

xxxxxxxxxx

Daniel Gregg had been settled in bed for about a half an hour when the door opened. He looked up hopefully; assuming Carolyn had come back, as she had promised, to see how he was doing. Being sick, even after a hundred years, could be worse. To his surprise, Claymore Gregg entered the room first, carrying a woolen blanket and looking VERY green about the gills. Martha followed on his heels with the roll-away cot, then Carolyn, wearing an apologetic look. Candy and Jonathan hovered in the doorway.

"Claymore?" Daniel started. "I thought you had hightailed it for home."

"I... I had to finish fixing the shower rod," Claymore answered. "I was getting ready to leave..." he continued, looking quite miserable, "…and I threw..."

"Don't tell me..." the Captain said, stopping him.

"...up. Uncle-Captain, please, I..."

"OH, no, you blasted blatherskite, you are NOT bunking with…"

Carolyn and Martha began setting up the roll-away. "Move over, Captain, you have company," said Martha, grinning.

"Bloody he -! Not here!" He looked dismayed.

"We don't have a choice, Daniel," Carolyn interrupted. "Claymore did stay and help you take care of things when we were sick. Don't you think we owe…?"

"Oh, no… Somewhere else, please!" the seaman pleaded.

"Captain, you promised me..." Claymore protested. "You promised me you would take care of me if I got sick!"

"The rest of the house is full-up, Captain," Martha stated calmly, flipping a sheet and blanket over the cot, not at all put off by the mariner's rumblings. "We don't want the kids, or Mrs. Muir relapsing, now do we? You know that a relapse of the flu can be twice as bad as the original bout!"

Daniel Gregg looked toward the ceiling, rolling his eyes. "Dear God, I do believe you have laid a curse on me! I admitted to Claymore's face that he has his good points — am I to be spared nothing?"

"I get more respect from my enemies than family..." Claymore grumbled, now stripped to his boxer shorts and a T-shirt. He climbed into the newly made roll-away.

"You strip like a featherweight," the Captain grumbled. "And I am NOT your family…" He scooted his muscular frame further under his covers and sneezed again, shaking the walls. "And the reason you don't get as much respect from me as you do your enemies is I know you better than they do, Claymore."

"It will only be for a day or so, Daniel..." Carolyn looked apologetic, but amused.

"Bless you, Captain!" chorused Candy and Jonathan.

"It's Clay, uncle, remember?" Claymore smirked, then winced and grabbed his stomach.

"DON'T call me 'uncle'…" the Captain sighed, and looked tired as Claymore made a bolt for the bathroom.

The next twenty four hours were going to be interminable.

End


End file.
